This baby is the size of an ear of corn.  Which is about 11-12 inches, if you’re wondering.  Tony recently watched me quizzically as I grabbed a ruler and held it up to my belly and tried to angle it in all different ways to see how in the sam hill 12 inches could fit in there.  Shaking his head, he finally reminded me that the baby is probably in a fetal position, not stretched out like a board.

I’m so glad I married a brunette, you guys.

Not too much new to report, other than Fox has moved from having sweet little flutters that I’d “ohh” and “ahh” over while rubbing my belly in a maternal way, to conceiving an entire aerobics routine that he hosts once an hour.  3 weeks ago I was blissfully unaware that he would soon be using my uterus as his own personal home gym.  I’m not the YMCA, kid, stop kicking my bladder!

Other than his attempted jail breaks, we’re feeling pretty good around these parts.  I’ve slowed down on the Mexican food obsession and have moved on to a deeply personal relationship with bacon.

Funny thing about bacon, though.

I’ve always enjoyed bacon, like pretty much everyone else with a pulse, but was never a heavy consumer.  In fact, I didn’t especially love it on sandwiches or burgers, but could appreciate it with breakfast if it also meant I had pancakes and eggs and sausage and…damnit, now I’m hungry.  Anyway.  When I first got pregnant I could barely be in the same house if Tony cooked bacon, as my gag reflex knew no better trigger than fatty pig parts cooked in oil.  But all of a sudden I cannot get enough BLT’s in my diet.  Every other night I’m eating a BLT with avocado on toasted wheat bread.  Tony finally had to ask if we could slow it down on the bacon.  I think he’s starting to get chest pain.

Whatever, wimp, suck it up.

Anyhow.

I won’t leave you hanging on the belly pics any longer, as I know you freaks are here for pretty much one thing and one thing only.  To watch me fatten up.  And far be it for me to disappoint…

This first one was taken by Tony who then went MIA, so the rest are self-portraits in the style of annoying Facebook tween profile pics.  Like, OMG, totes lame, I know!

We call this the “artsy” photo as it was too bright behind me.  So now you get to see my pregnant silhouette.  And an XBox controller.  I know you’re staring at the XBox controller.

Here’s my first attempt to take a self-portrait.  I’m still rusty.  And you can tell I’m rusty because professional self-portrait-takers normally clean the dirty clothes off their beds before taking pictures.  And if they’re English-major-professional-self-portrait-takers they also try to hide the full Harry Potter series visible on the bookshelf behind them.  I promise I have postmodern-Indie books lying around this house somewhere…

Here’s a full body shot.  Because I didn’t want you all to worry that I’ve given up on the heels quite yet.

You know what is incredibly embarrassing?  That I’m posting a picture of my incredibly dirty bathroom mirror for all the Internet to see.  Nice, Katie.  Real nice.

This is me trying to soothe my poor bladder.

This is the last one, I swear.  Because how many times can we look at the same picture?  Except if you look closely, you might be able to see a few pieces of bacon in that belly.

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