The tired insomniacs club

I'm not one to stay awake all night and then sleep until noon on Sunday, but load me up with progesterone and there I am staring at the ceiling from one until nearly four a.m. Last night was one of those night. I finally fell asleep in the wee morning hours, dwindling my way to the impossible quest for a silent cerveau. Then like a New York party girl I dragged myself out of bed at 12 Sunday morning for a brunch that I had to eat all alone because the guys had pretty much abandoned me, given me up for dead. I was ravenous and downed almost an entire log of chevre, half a baguette and a bottle of mineral water in ten minute flat. That followed by juicy, ripe tomatoes drowing in salt and cracked pepper. Cravings...uh huh...we got 'em.

We moved cautiously the first few weeks not telling a soul and I made Seb swore that he would keep everything secret until the second trimester started but alas the belly has given me away. At nearly eleven weeks everyone pretty much knows just by looking at me. I didn't even get to make a grand announcement. Second pregnancies pretty much take up where the last one left off, or so I've discovered. I am rapidly turning into the 39 week parade float that was me circa October 2004. It's like the baby says "woo-hoo a 100 square meter apartment with a great restaurant upstairs!" and she is happy as can be...

as are we...

And no it's not twins (the answer to everyone's second question)

And no my ass is not normally this large (the answer to everyone's third question)