Poop.
My poor husband is already sick and tired of hearing about poop. I think we both thought that poop wouldn’t become a part of our lives to actually be remarked upon until after the arrival of the little alien, at which point we still, I think, plan to laugh together over how somebody so little and cute can produce something so voluminous and disgusting. Or we will if our collective sense of poop-humor manages to survive the pregancy, anyway. It’s looking like it might be a close call.
I feel like I could use a twelve-step poop program. Hi, my name is Deb, and I’m constipated.
Hey, at least the meetings would keep Jay from having to hear about it.
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