OK, OK, OK ... I get it. You knew all along. You've seen Sarah in the halls, or heard about her getting nauseous, or wondered "Why no more feta?" -- or -- "Why isn't Sarah having her usual weekend benders?"
Let me just confirm it for you then. The secret is out. The cat is out of the bag. The monkeys are roosting. We ... are ... pregnant (wait, am I allowed to claim that, too? Is it endearing or haughty?)
Henry has informed us that the baby is in the French Fry phase right now, and will advance into the Cantaloupe and finally Watermelon phases (which, by the way, we are using as baby names until we find out the gender). Henry also gives the baby a kiss and a zerbert each night, and asks all kinds of great things about it ("Will the baby have a beard?")
It's a blast so far, now that we're past the puking. And the vertigo. That was not fun.
Sarah's only current affliction is Thirstinasia Moltocrazentia. She sometimes drinks so much with dinner (ethanol-free ... stay with me, folks) that she doesn't actually eat any dinner. Ask my parents ... her dinner from last weekend is still in their fridge. In its entirety. Maybe we can have it bronzed.
So call me up, call me a schmuck because you had to see it on the blog, Facebook, or Twitter. Some of you already have. And thanks in advance for all the well wishes ... we'll need 'em.
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