Foot Balls and Blind Rage

I've been pretty lucky so far, skipping many of the severe symptoms that other pregnant women complain about. In fact, I really have enjoyed being pregnant, overall. Sure, I was woozy my first few months, and I get a little heartburn here and there, and my stride has changed from decisive to wobbly, but really, the discomforts have been minor, and I've been grateful.

Not to mention the fact that, because I think all pregnant women are adorable, I assume everyone else finds me equally cute, and that (possibly mistaken) assumption makes a lot of aches and pains bearable.

I just looked down at my feet, however, and found that they have morphed into chubby, cheerful pink orbs. They seem to be preparing to explode. Over the last few days I've become achier and sleepier than ever. And the other morning I found myself squeezing Hershey's syrup onto my breakfast cereal when I thought I was making chocolate milk. So, the chickens of pregnancy seem to be coming home to roost.

But that's ok-- only about a month to go, and I don't yet have any really entertaining stories of pregnancy insanity to relate. Part of me aspires to the gestational weirdness of the new mother who chatted us up in Target when we were registering; she related the tale of how, one night when she was lying in bed, she got so hot that she stood up, ripped the metal blinds off the window, and threw them at her sleeping husband. Doesn't domestic abuse sound kind of huggable when it's performed by someone with a belly out to here?