Oh, my wonderful Va-j-j, you got me into this mess to begin with.
With an "oooh" and a "ahhh" the damage was done.
Then came the nausea and gas.
Now at 8 months, I can no longer see you, but I know you are there.
Weekly question: to shave or not to shave.
And now that I cannot see you, I have hijacked my husband's electric shaver.
I will not be cutting you up. My death grip on this shaver will not be loosened until you are in my sight again.
Oh, dear Va-j-j, why do you give me so much trouble?
Somehow you made my belly and boobs grow beyond measure and you keep me from standing on the scale.
I'm afraid of that scale...it haunts me in my dreams.
Sweaty boobs are not attractive, nor is a growing backside in a g-string.
On days when my husband says I'm beautiful and then inhales to smell something funny, I blame you!
I may be beaming, but what the hell does that mean anyway?
Oh, my lovely Va-j-j, why do you bring me so much pain?
As my hips spread at night, I clutch frozen peas and call you my "cha cha."
My poor Twitter pals get a blow by blow of your latest antics.
I've definitely been labeled uncouth and the "TMI" girl.
You force me to sleep on my side at night with a pillow under my legs.
It takes an act of congress to switch sides because of you.
Oh, my sweet Va-j-j, when will you put me out of my misery?
I know very soon you will be a sorrier mess then you are right now.
Stitches and tufts pads will be in your immediate future.
You will soon be out of order with an "exit only" sign posted on the hospital grade stretchy underwear.
Bathroom breaks will soon be a dread and I may need assistance on and off the pot.
What a humiliation! Remind me again why I got into this mess in the first place? Oh, yeah, to be given the opportunity to change more dirty diapers.