The other day I opened an email from my neighbor R. She was forwarding pictures she took the morning before at IHOP, where our families went to celebrate Sawyer's birthday.
I almost cried. Okay, I actually sniffled. Twice. Maybe three times.
R. is a fabulous photographer and a master of photoshop. The first is obvious but now I know the latter is true because it is the best picture of me I've seen since I left the first trimester behind.
My daughter looks adorable and R. thankfully erased the boogers marching under Sage's nose. R. didn't get rid of my round cheeks that seem to be on the verge of swallowing my eyes, but she made me look, well, almost pretty, which is an amazing feat on many levels, including that it was early in the morning and I had not a touch of makeup on (even my beauty mark has been smoothed away).
And since I've been in the pregnancy self-esteem smackdown for awhile now, it was a much-needed boost.
I appreciate all my friends who assure me that, since I was in such fabulous shape before I got pg, I'll have no trouble getting back there. Unfortuately I'm guessing my body is not interested in running two marathons in less than eight months ever again.
The thought of having to drop all this excess baggage isn't a place I can go right now, as I enter the third trimester. Twelve (or less, hopefully) weeks to go.
And then it all begins.
Hey, at least I can enjoy having porn-star boobs for a little while longer - and thankfully there will be no pictures of those beauties!
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