Nine months. Eleven weeks.
Bun Bun is nine months old today. I celebrated by cutting her hair. Turns out having a baby with lots of hair means having a baby whose hair is always in her face, and who pulls out anything you put in to hold it back, and promptly puts it in her mouth. And I kept being all, I can’t beeeeear to cut it, until this morning I was like, What on earth am I thinking! CUT IT! So I did (just the part that hangs over her eyes), and it looks TERRIBLE, as you might imagine. I suppose it’s never too early to discourage vanity. And, um, this should be quite effective. But it’s out of her face now.
She is crawling merrily and confidently, sitting up like a pro, and is now all about pulling to stand and falling over and hitting her head. I DO hope that’s a brief phase. She has discovered the magic of putting THINGS into other THINGS, and I am very proud of her.
Bunlet, meanwhile, is eleven weeks and two days of gestational age today. On Friday we have our ultrascreen (NT measurement, blood tests). I will become extremely worried a few days before and will be certain that terrible news is awaiting me.
I received a catalog from a maternity clothing company and, in the process of putting it in the recycling, I may have seen a page or two. They depicted pregnant women (always about twenty and not actually pregnant) in the company of a four- or five-year-old child. Not this Fertile Whore. Bun Bun and Bunlet will be, if this really happens, not quite sixteen months apart.
In other news, last night Mr. Bunny and I had a more successful going-out-to-dinner experience. Then when we got home he tried to put the moves on me and I was like oh my god you are so out of your motherfucking MIND. And then I felt guilty. But feeling guilty was better than crawling out of my skin with horror.