Complain might not be the right word. Inform. Maybe. Let's go with inform.
I'm a little chubby. Or a lot chubby.
I've gotten asked many times if carrying a girl is different. At first, I said no. My belly is the same, kind of like a basketball. And then I noticed something. Something that was sneaking up on me from behind.
No, really, my behind.
I had to move into my big girl panties in the second trimester instead of the third like with the boys. And with the beginning of my third, I'm in need of big(ger) girl panties.
My jeans that I wore through the end of the pregnancy with Levi, they don't fit.
Jeans that I had accidentally bought too big when pregnant with Kolby and never wore with Levi? Fit, um, snuggly. Let's just say it's a good thing I don't live where I need to where jeans.
My shorts are less than comfortable. But wearable. But I feel huge in them.
And sometimes a girl just wants to wear shorts, not a dress.
And I still have quite a bit of time left.
And I'm not even going to mention the varicose veins in my legs. They're hideous.
End complaining. I mean informing.
Because having a daughter will be totally worth it, right?