First of all, I love you. Let's get my love out there, in the open. Because I love you already, you little pea-sized larva looking thing inside of me.
But you should know: you make me sick. And I mean that in the most affectionate, everything-I-do-I-do-it-for-you sort of way. But really.
This is how I found out I was pregnant with you:
1. Missed period. No brainer. But I'm a born skeptic and I've seen one too many negative pregnancy tests, so I didn't jump to any conclusions. And then I had...
2. Cramps. Horrible cramps. Like crippling, mind-bending, aliens-are-trying-to-rip-through-my-organs cramps. Ouch.
5. Then, on Tuesday, December 20, 2011, I took a pregnancy test.
I took the pregnancy test only after barfing my brains out several times the night before. (How does one barf all of one's brains out multiple times? Don't ask me.) We had arrived the day before in San Jose, California, where your grandparents Watkins are serving as mission president and companion. Your grandma watched me double over with the pukes and went out first thing the next morning in search of those wonderful urine tests.
And 'twas confirmed: a bun in the oven.
I even took another test on Thursday. Just to be sure. Although with my face in the toilet the whole week, I wasn't that skeptical anymore.
And so today marks six weeks. Congrats, kid. 200-something days to go!
PS - Your dad is a champ. I'm really cranky and really sensitive to smells these days. When your poor pop tried to eat a meatball sub tonight, I gagged and had to cover my face. I even tell him he smells bad. Often. And then he rubs my feet because he's just that wonderful. I'm sure I'm unpleasant to live with right now.
PPS - I quit Diet Coke for you. I don't want to hold that over your head all your life, but I might if you push me to it. But you're worth it. It was time to quit anyway.