WARNING: TMI! TMI! TMI!
Now you've been prepped, so here's the deal: I am constipated beyond all belief and am ready to deliver a poo-baby any minute now. Boil some water and get fresh towels. Uh, if only I could. The hormone cocktail circulating in my serum apparently slows down digestion and, um, movement, and it is decidedly not good. I am taking a nasty, RE-approved laxative (Miralax) that forms a nice gritty paste when you mix it into 12 oz of Gatorade, but at least the odd salty flavor is masked by the thirst-quenching electrolytes. Two days so far of Gator-paste therapy, no action. Gawd, I just want my midsection to be rolled and squished like getting the last dollop out of a tube of toothpaste, to get rid of this bloaty, full, packed-to-the-gills feeling. [urp]
I knew about nausea and sore-boobedness, but I was not properly warned about traffic jams on the Hershey Highway. Christ, what else was I not told about? Is a giant melon-sized head going to squeeze through my lady canal in 8 months or something? Ha, that would be hilarious. [sigh]