Time to trade in my beer gut for a baby gut.

Now I can blame my overeating of pasta and my favorite junk foods on “cravings.”

The children acted like whirling dervishes the second they found out there was a third. No going back now, I mean, there is, and I support that if you go that route.

Longing for a June baby, giving up on said June baby, getting a June baby. Scary Happiness strikes again.

Not being scared to walk away from the things that hurt.

My husband walks a thin line when he says, “the pregnancy symptoms are all in your head, you aren’t far enough along.” Once again, let’s never let men get pregnant because I can’t imagine the work us women would put in to lament with them.

Worrying about miscarrying. Worrying about miscarrying. Ooh, chips with cheese, forgot about life. Chips are all gone. Worrying about miscarrying. Worrying about miscarrying.

On the third go round, the birth announcement is texted instead of called. Your husband finds out while mid-take-off on a work trip.

Crying at every song instead of every other song.

With the first it was glowing. With the second it was a mandatory struggle sentence – irritability, and a lack of motivation knowing I had to go through it again. The third was our choice, not a requirement for our family but a delightful addition, a craving to complete the wolfpack. That’s when I started making the rules and realizing I DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH NONSENSE. With the third I have already found myself, and the outcome is beautiful.

Scaring children the same way my parents scared me, knowing it made me stronger. Maybe this is why people take it too far or feel comfort in the bad as it helps us grow.

Writing to my child like they’ve been here all along.

Knowing this is the last time I have to do this. My body can once again become mine, but it will always be theirs.

Bon Iver, you are a medicine for tears, my friend. Are you always pregnant?

Can I get a what, what…for someone including puke breaks in a workout routine?

My vices are screaming children inside my head, longing for my attention. I’ve locked them away in the same room as the drunk bitch who criticizes me while I write my novel. One day they will be released, and I hope they don’t resent me like my teenage children.

Nothing like a puke and a cry to start the day. Best part of waking up.

Wanting to know the sex of the baby. Knowing I can get it at my solo checkups and no one would know. Holding back to punish myself as withholding the information is the most primal form of self control. If I fail myself now I won’t know my capabilities.

I hope I remember to read this again someday, because if I’m ever hankering for a fourth kid, I can remember how knock down drag out t’ard I was with the third and second and first and how I PROMISED myself it was the last bout of torture club. PROMISED. I REPEAT – PROMISED THERE WOULD BE NO MORE.

Maybe my lucid dreams have been chasing me my entire life. I remember confusing reality and dream world in college after long bouts of drinking or sickness, crying to myself thinking I cannot discern what was real. I called into work one day because a nightmare told me to, the person on the other end of the phone confused and a tinge worried. Maybe that’s why I became drawn to herbal winds which help me forget and block out the nightmares. Maybe part of being a writer is harnessing the terrors that haunt me at night, repetitive and aggressive, threatening to take me in my sleep if I’m not careful. Maybe I can crush them once and for all if I write them out. Isn’t that what we all want? For them to go away?

Hearing my daughter refer to The Zephyr Song as “the beautiful song” and howling to Warren Zevon are some of the most fulfilling teachings ever. Keep going, kid.

I judge my quality of days by how well I can nab the lyrics to Hand in My Pocket.