Underneath it All

Baby Quinn, unlike Olive (who had no intention to exit my womb), seems eager to come out and play.

According to the ultrasound, her head is down (Olive was breech), and she jabs me with her limbs daily.

YAY.

I'm roughly a month away from delivering Baby Quinn and am looking foul. My National Geographic-worthy boobies are massive, pale and veiny. And topping off the suckers are large, darkened areolas circling pencil-eraser-esque nipples.

My pajama pants are no longer fitting and I and have begun sporting my husband's gym shorts. Four inches of hard belly meat jut out over them when I walk around the house. Imagine an obese man with a single ab.

My legs are swollen and I am no longer comfortably fitting into maternity "skinny jeans." I wonder if I can find "maternity skinny jeans for husky calves." My stems are also dry and scaly - for I have become too darn fat to to bend over to lotion them.

And then there's my face. Laura Mercier bronzer is no longer doing me any good. Try contouring a marshmallow. It's a feat next to impossible.

I crop dust as I walk. Deepest apologies to those who crowd me at Trader Joes and the Farmer's Market. My body's full of gas over which I have no control of. I excrete unidentifiable liquids when friends make me laugh too hard. I'm like a senior citizen. And yes, I choo-choo like a freight train when asleep. My nasal passage is filled with fat - my own diagnosis, not the the doctor's. 

This second pregnancy has left me feeling physically ruined, but that's okay. I'm eight-months pregnant, and in the home-stretch. I'm incubating a little human, and this is what I'm supposed to look like. I look to Olive and know that this journey is a worthwhile one.

Olive with her beloved aunt Cindy, whom she thinks is named "Honey."

The name has stuck, and we don't have the heart to correct her...

Olive baking blueberry muffins with Mama.

Master Chef Jr. in the making...

A Little Out There

Strolling with pops on the grounds of Cabot Cove in Kennebunkport.

Olive, you're barely a toddler, yet I'm already imagining how exciting it's going to be the day you're of age to attend summer camp. Your aunt Cindy and I attended day camp as kids (nothing fancy, just the YMCA), and the memories we have from our summers together (elaborate friendship bracelets and disgustingly stinky feet) are ones we will treasure forever. Gosh, peanut. If only you can be so lucky.

From Iceland to France to England to the East Coast of the United States, this summer you clocked-in some mayjah mileage. Camp Mama made sure your days abroad were packed with activity; and while you probably won't be remembering any of it, I have plenty of photographic evidence proving that you were well-entertained and living life to its very fullest.

With the passing of Labor Day, I'm rushing to post snapshots from your final days of summer 2013. You were a little out there. Perhaps too much so? Your grandaunts won't stop pointing out your toasty skin tone, but hey, you're a California girl.

You dislike hats, but seem to like Mama's.

Clam Shack, Kennebunk ME

 Last summer, you couldn't get enough of this stuff.

This summer, you only wanted fries.

My little foodie, no more.

 Like your mama, you get excited when in the presence of baked goods. 

Congdon's Doughtnuts, Wells, ME

 Admiring some whoopie whilst clinging on to a donut hole.

You know your priorities.

Congdon's Doughnuts, Wells, ME

 You do not share Mama's love for antiquing and thrifting.

You prefer running through parking lots - under the careful watch of daddy.

 Like father, like daughter.

Yours was an Icelandic yogurt-filled summer.

 You have a favorite word.

All that goes on top of your head, Naked juice caps included, instantaneously become, "Hat."

 Gaga doesn't wear pants.

You don't either.

 There's so much more to Maine than lobster rolls,

but your father and I don't care.

Lobster Shack, Cape Elizabeth, ME

Why so serious? 

 Happy duo.

Boston Children's Museum, Boston, MA

Family time with your adorable cousin, Paul.

Unintended bubble bath.

Boston Children's Museum, Boston, MA

 You made it out to the 'bu.

Malibu, CA

You soared like a bird with the help of auntie Mai.

 Lady & the Tramp. (Mama's the tramp.)

Consuming beach-appropriate food that your daddy would never give you.

 All in all, I think it's safe to say that you had a lovely summer.

Now this blog was never supposed to be all about you, rather about mommy's stupid doodles. See blog title? Yes, Mama's a bit of a narcissist. But seeing that you are my greatest source of inspiration, these entries are more relevant than you think.

Bow Wow-Wow, Yippee-Yo, Yippee-Yay

My cousin, Cindy has been wanting a pug for as long as I can remember. Alas the time has come... this lil' gal is a pup in consideration... OMIGOSH, is correct.