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Heather's Pregnancy Journal

Week 19 ~ May 3, 2002
~ Elefeetitis and Noshoefitia

Someone has come into my house overnight, chopped off my feet, and replaced them with those from an elephant! Have any of you ever seen elephant feet on a human? It is amazing! Look out Shaquille O'Neal, here I come!

But are they elephant feet? No! They are my very own feet after Mexican food consumption! My feet are so swollen; they are tender to the touch. (And for suspicious minds-no, I do not have preeclampsia!) Let's make a name for this syndrome-one that does not sound so medical-how 'bout Elefeetitis? Or Noshoefitia?

I knew I'd have some swelling, but I never guessed it would be to this magnitude. Does this mean I must give up Mexican food? After all, I live in Texas-giving up Mexican food is like giving up, well, air. I could give it up for a day or two, but for the next five months? Such sacrifices one must make! Yes, yes, I know, it is worth it.

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On a lighter note, I did amend my painting faux pas. No more ridiculous paint splatters, but it does seem the streaking on the Pergo is a permanent addition. Perhaps with years of mopping it will dissolve. We got our master bedroom window installed, and anxiously await the arrival of the rest of our windows (delayed until May 15th -such a shock, eh?).

I'm feeling GB move more and more. Most of the time I feel him late at night, still just a tiny little tapping from the inside. The movements aren't regular, and at most they occur every other day. I can't wait until Steve gets to feel our little baby, anxiously kicking mom while he can still get away with it! My poor husband, so jealous that I get to feel the baby and he does not. I certainly think it is fair; after all, I'm the one that is sitting in my chair, back propped by pillows, viciously suffering from Noshoefitia.

Everyone asks me what kinds of food I am craving. While you might assume Mexican, those cravings are normal. My most significant pregnancy craving is quite odd and cannot be fulfilled. I am craving beer! Interestingly enough, I rarely enjoyed the taste of beer, and now all I can think of is a nice frosty mug of good cold brew. I walk down the beer aisle at the grocery store and admire all the fun names-Tommyknockers, Fat Tire, Pete's Wicked Ale and many others. I want so much to grab a bottle and slug it down, belching admirably as I reach the end of the bottle. (My mouth likes to compete with the other end for interesting and loud noises.) Believe me, I know better, but I can dream, can't I?

Before I depart, I will just take a moment to thank everyone for your input. I feel so loved when I turn on my computer and see the glorious words, "New Mail."

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