So... I'm in the 95th percentile for babies' sizes. At 36 weeks.
At my "Holy crap you're huge!" ultrasound appointment last week, they estimated my baby's weight at 7 and a half pounds.
Gain half a pound a week...
carry the one...
this is one big bowling ball that's rumblin' around in there.
So everyone who's telling me how freaking huge I am? GOT IT. Can we all just move on?
But the award for creepy interaction of the week goes to the substitute working in the room next door.
As I passed by him on my way to lunch, a sixty-ish ex-coach-looking man with the "Guest Teacher" lanyard around the neck of his athletic jacket clutches my upper arm and leans in close to my ear. "Have they told you it's twins yet?" he croons into my ear.
No, you creeptastic grossinator. Now stop touching me.