Clichés are dull. No one wants to see 'predictable' or 'routine' really, do they?
Unless you're talking pregnancy.
Up to the start of this week, ET was flying along on the side-effect scale. A few bouts of tiredness and a bit more cleavage were the most she had to deal with.
Then along comes this week.
The woman is pissing like a racehorse. Not in the middle of a field, or with a nosebag tied around her head, or anything like that, but frequently.
Four times a night frequently.
I'm wholeheartedly in favour of this outward indication of her blossoming condition, I'd just prefer less nocturnal manifestations. I really can't afford to be losing beauty sleep.
That aside, I hit the jackpot yesterday. The lotto of pregnancy symptoms.
I received a phone call from my walking talking incubator to inform me she was on the verge of puking her guts up.
It seems empty stomachs, mutating foetuses, and 45 minute bus rides in the morning do not mix very well. The result is one very pale, clammy and nauseous wife, and one sadistically happy husband.
I just wonder how much longer she'll allow me to be outwardly delighted when she says she's on the verge of vomiting up a kidney.
That centimetre long urine generating, puke prompting, exhaustion creating creature growing happily inside her, is a whole (recalculated) 8 weeks old tomorrow.
Some cake petal?