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Swig, pee, swig, pee

(edited to properly punctuate the title…it never occurred to me that someone might think I was writing about swigging pee…commas are my friend and yours)

Thank you to everyone who left encouraging comments and let me know we are in your prayers.

I spent Thanksgiving being completely useless and lazy. My parents drove themselves, the 20-pound-turkey they bought for our abruptly-cancelled visit, pies, and all the sides over the mountains to our house on Wednesday. My husband brined and roasted the turkey, a la Alton Brown’s convoluted method. It was supremely moist and delicious, as always. I parked myself in bed or on the couch.

We watched the parade, celebrated Snoopy Thanksgiving, played UNO, watched Home Alone, ate, ate, and ate. I napped.

Through it all, I felt our little guy kicking away. His movements have increased, which might mean an increase in fluid—theory is more fluid = more wiggle room. Every little nudge and hard jab is more than welcome.

I am constantly drinking water (swig) and I am getting to the point (swig) the sight of my water bottle and the thought of refilling it again (swig) makes me want to drop-kick it to the moon (swig swig). The internet is mixed regarding whether increased fluids in the mom makes the baby pee more (swig) but I will do my part so he can do his (pee).

See how we work together? Like turkey and gravy, like homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream, like stuffing mixed with a bit of mashed potato in perfect ratio, like an enormous grapefruit-sized hot Parkerhouse roll with creamy melted butter. Thanksgiving lives on, and it lives in the forefront of my mind.

Thanks again to all of you.

23 comments to Swig, pee, swig, pee

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