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Love is a friendship set to music. Happy anniversary to my beautiful dance partner.

Password is: Moses

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It comes every year and every year is special. Christmas time is here again!

For The Boudreaus, this year we've got a little extra sweetness in our fruitcake as we have welcomed a brand new member into the Boudreausian circle of trust. Moses Daniel Boudreau was born on December 2 and he is ready to make his Christmas song debut.

Click here to watch the card and hear the song now.

So sit back. Enjoy the music. And wish everyone you know a Merry Christmas!

With much love,
Stephen, Michelle and Moses
aka The Boudreaus (dot com!)

Now there was nothing particularly special about this evening. I was waiting for Shelley to come home from work so we could go out for a delicious meal together. Probably Italian. I don't remember, I only know that it probably wasn't Mexican since the pregnancy robbed her, albeit temporarily, of her passionate love of the melted cheese, tortillas and chicken combination that had served us so well for years. In its stead, was a seemingly endless love affair with cuisine from the boot-shaped European country.

I'm not complaining . . . Italy has been good to us. If you can't say nice things about pizza, then you just shouldn't be allowed to eat. It's just that I really miss the chips and salsa. It's nice to go to a restaurant and be immediately treated to a unique blend of tomatoes and jalapenos along with some tortilla crisps. It's a lovely gesture and puts me in a very jolly mood. I like to think the salsa is made with a recipe that has been preserved for generations through a series of arduous and seemingly impossible circumstances that challenged the very existence of this little bowl of chunky goodness now placed before me for dipping. You'd think a baby would be into that sort of thing, but whatever. I'm not the one growing a human life in my torso.

But I digress . . .

On this nondescript evening of the ninth month of the year, I was at home waiting for my beautiful bride to arrive for an evening of non-mexican food and a guaranteed designated driver. That's one of the perks of being the male half of a pregnancy. "Should I have that second glass of wine? Booyeah, Shelley's got the keys!" Of course, most people who know me realize that I'm passed out under the table singing songs about my childhood dog, Princess, after a couple sips of a Mambo Taxi. Still, since Shelley can't partake in the spirits, it was good to know that I could be extra spiritual for the two of us.

But, again, I digress . . .

I remember very little about this quiet Friday night at Casa de Boudreau . . . but the fact that it was a Friday meant that I had a soccer game the next day. This means that I needed to throw my uniform into the washing machine. As an aside. . . when I have a couple of sips of Mambo Taxi in me I sometimes joke that Shelley is "my own personal washing machine", but she really doesn't get as much a kick out of it as I do. It's pretty funny, though. Well.. the delivery is key I suppose. Blogging doesn't allow for me to really sell it. Trust me. . . comedy gold.

But anyway . . . typically, I would be throwing both our uniforms into the wash since it is our co-ed team of four years that plays on Saturdays. But since our little bundle of Boudreau has come into existence, it has transformed our star player into our number one fan. I know it's been really hard for Shelley to sit on the sidelines week after week after years of never missing a minute of the action, but she still never misses a game. And I, we . . . well, everyone on our team never has a moment go uncheered or uncelebrated. She's as valuable off the field as she is on it. That's nice. She really is quite a spectacular girl. I miss playing with her too. She's also quite cute in that uniform.

Again with the digressing . . .

Friday night. You know the setting.

So I head to the laundry room to find my uniform in the delightfully smelling basket of used clothing and undergarments. And that's when it happened.

After seven months of pregnancy . . . seven months of seeing Shelley's cute little tummy grow bit by bit . . . seven months of a glowing face that frowned at fajitas and smiled at bow-tie pasta . . . seven months of a sweet after dinner buzz that made me *extra* funny . . . after all that time of witnessing my beautiful wife sacrifice and give of herself in just about every aspect of her life. . . I finally got an almost laughably tiny peek into the surreal and sometimes inexplicable world of pregnancy. I suddenly had a more pronounced understanding that I would be fathering a real life, tiny bundle of home-made, human baby.

Pretty jaw-dropping stuff, right? I know, it sounds absurd. But as a guy, my tangible evidence is all from the outside in.

And it was just such an outside-in moment that transpired in that laundry room.

Sitting on the top of that laundry basket was a pile of brand new onesies. Yes, I'd seen plenty of these before. But really, I normally glanced at them and thought, "That's nice. Very cute. . . I suppose, if you're really into that one-piece clothing style. Personally, I like to wear pants. I'm a pants guy, sorry. But whatever. That's cool."

But on this Friday night in September I picked up that little onesie and for a fleeting moment could feel that baby kicking for ever-shrinking space in Shelley's womb. I could see that flat fabric filled with bursting life and a wiggly body. There was a real baby on the way. And I was uniquely privileged and blessed to be its daddy.

So I burped the onesie.

Seriously. I am not lying. As God as my witness, I put that onesie on my shoulder, bobbed up and down and patted the thing on the back as if to burp the invisible, just formula-fed baby I was holding in my imagination.

I've got to say. . . I'm not ashamed to say there was a little knot in my throat as this whole charade transpired.

Typically when people behave in this fashion, it is followed by men in white coats and large doses of medication. But for me, it was simply a sincere and earnest moment of quiet, albeit somewhat embarrassing, revelation.

Tonight at 10 pm Shelley and I are checking into the hospital as a family of two for the last time. If all goes as planned, by tomorrow morning we will welcome our new child to the world outside the womb.

For Shelley, this will be the culmination of an arduous and beautiful journey filled with discomfort, sacrifice, exasperation . . . and a few breathtaking moments of awe. She will be turning in her pregnancy ID and taking her first steps into a lifetime of motherhood. I have not a single doubt that our child will be a better, kinder, smarter and more loving person having Shelley in his or her life. I know that I am.

As for me, I'm just eager to meet the little guy (or gal). There are inevitable fears and expectations, questions about the future, worries and hopes about the possibilities that are before us, concerns over whose nose our child will inherit . . . but I don't want to get ahead of myself just yet. There will be a time and place for all of that. Tomorrow is not a promise and I want to savor these final moments of our old life as two and cherish the first moments of our new life as three. Life goes by so fast, but that doesn't mean we can't seize the day and take it all in.

What else can I say? I had a tender moment with a onesie and I haven't been the same since.

I had my final doctor's appointment today. The baby has made some progress towards the exit, but my doctor is still pretty sure that it won't be coming before the induction date. As I write this, barring something unexpected, I will be a mom one week from right now. It was pretty surreal to leave the doctor's office and realize the next time I will see my doctor will be when I'm having a baby. I worked today and am working a short day tomorrow and then will be done with work for 8 weeks. Needless to say, I'm having a lot of life changes in the next week.

I recently read a blog my friend Katie Moore posted about her path to motherhood and I was inspired to write about my own journey and take a moment to reflect back on the path which led me to this place.

When Stephen and I got married, we both agreed we wanted to wait 4 to 5 years to start trying to have kids. I still had a year of law school left and wanted to get my career off the ground before I started thinking about adding kids to the mix.

Four years passed and we both agreed that five was a better number. Then five years passed. At that point I think Stephen was ready, but I wasn't. I'd always dreamt about having kids as a young girl, but I think watching friends have kids and see how much it really changed their lives and how much freedom they lost made that desire retreat deeper inside me. There was a point in our marriage where I wasn't sure I ever wanted to have kids. I liked my life the way it was. I like traveling and not having to worry about paying for someone's college education and being able to stay at the office late because a little kid wasn't waiting for me to come home.

So, in about October of 2007 (five plus years after we got married), I went off birth control. I figured that if I didn't do it then, I would get far too comfortable with my freedom and might never want to do it. In January, we thought we might be pregnant. We took an at home test which said that we were. I can't explain to you the panic that went through me. Stephen was so excited and I felt like I was about to poop my pants.

To make a long story short, they ran a number of tests that came up with varying answers as to the mystery of what was in my uterus. We went on a family reunion cruise the week after running all these tests. The question of whether I was pregnant or not was still up for debate as we boarded the ship. We were on board the ship about two days before my doctor called to tell me that the last test they ran indicated that I was probably pregnant at some point. When I told her I had started bleeding, she told me to go to the on board doctor to get a pregnancy test done and see what he said.

My little brother was with us at this particular moment so we had to explain what was going on to him. So the three of us headed to the ship doctor to see what was going on. This really sweet nurse gave me one of those pee on a stick tests. It came out negative and all I could do was cry. It was the first time in a really long time that I wanted to be a mom.

The jury is still out on what exactly happened to my body that January, but whatever it was, God used it as a way to show me that even though I wasn't entirely ready to give up my freedom and become a mom, being a mom was what my heart truly desired.

Two months later I took another test, but this time all the blood work backed up at home test results. And now . . . seven and a half months later, I sit here a week away from giving birth.

Pregnancy has definitely not been my favorite experience or one that I want to endure again soon, but I'm excited about what it is going to produce. I'm completely clueless about this world that I'm about to enter, but I'm entering it knowing no matter how hard it is, it's what I want.

Tomorrow I go in for my second to last doctor's appointment. I'm crossing my fingers that something . . . anything . . . has happened to progress the baby towards living outside versus inside of me but I'm not overly optimistic about it.

Now that D-day is getting closer and closer, Stephen and I are constantly wondering whether it's a boy or a girl. I think we both feel like it's a boy so we're convinced that it must then be a girl. The closer it gets, the crazier it seems that one of the names that we've picked out (which are still super top secret by the way) will be attached to a little human being soon.

When my mom was pregnant with my older brother, she and my dad were convinced they were having a girl. They didn't pick a boy's name because they were so sure they were having a girl. So, my brother was supposed to be Michelle Renee. Only, he wasn't a girl, so my parents had to pick out a boy's name for him on the spot.

Anyway, I was thinking about this the other day, which led me to wonder . . . what if Jim had been a girl . . . what would my name have been? Would I be the same person if I had been named Jennifer or Kelly instead of Michelle? Would I have had the same friends, gone into a different profession, ended up at a different college, would my life be totally different? How much does your name define who you are? Will the names that we have selected for Baby Boudreau determine who they become as people or will they be a certain way regardless of their name?

However your name affects who you become as a person, I'm excited to see what gender Baby Boudreau is and share his or her name with everyone. I am horrible at keeping secrets.

It's been awhile since I wrote my last blog. As I write this, I have less than 4 weeks until my official due date. It is hard to believe that d-day is so close. It's been a unique experience to be sure. But I am, without a doubt, ready for the baby to be out of the womb ASAP. The expiration date on the overcrowding in my uterus, my inability to sleep well, and heartburn every time I eat has come and gone. Bring on the next challenges.

I've started weekly doctor appointments where they check my cervix for dilatation. It's great fun and not at all uncomfortable -- HA! Actually it's not fun at all and super uncomfortable . . . especially since my cervix is still a locked vault, meaning our new arrival will probably not be coming anytime soon.

My boss has a little celebration every time I come back to the office after one of these appointments and report no progress. While I understand her wanting me to stay around as long as possible (who wouldn't, really), I'm ready for this journey to be over.

While we were at our most recent doctor's appointment, the doctor had us set up an induction date in the event that the baby doesn't come on its own. If baby Boudreau continues in it's stubborn ways, December 2 is the last stop. When the doctor was telling us about this, she began down the path of explaining how many people don't like the thought of induction, but that once you get past your due date risks go up, etc. I don't know if she thought I was going to put up a road block, but I cleared that right up. I told her that if the baby wasn't here by my due date, I didn't care how they did it but they needed to get it out of me. Like I said, I'm ready for the baby to take up its wriggly squirmy habits somewhere other than my uterus.

I saw a commercial on TLC the other day for a show called something like "I didn't know I was pregnant." I guess the premise of the show is telling the stories of women who end up delivering a baby without ever knowing they were pregnant. While I'm sure that this happens on the extremely rare occasion, I call foul on there being enough women out there with this experience to base an entire show on.

Having gone through almost 9 months of pregnancy now, I don't understand how this is possible. It's not like the only clue would be the lack of that monthly visitor. Among the myriad of symptoms, I don't get how you would explain the baby's movements (especially towards the end when they get painful based on the lack of room). I mean what kind of health issues could you possibly think you have that would result in that kind of symptom -- some kind of massive tape worm?

So, to wrap up, I can no longer bend over without great difficulty, sleeping is a chore more than something I enjoy, my baby thinks it's an acrobat, and there are no signs of labor on the horizon.

Hooray!

I've always imagined myself having a boy first. And to be perfect honest, my gender detection instincts tell me that the baby will be a boy. However, these instincts are not based on any kind of fact, logic or track record. However, the other night I had a dream that the baby was a girl. (I've also had dreams of having a boy for anyone trying to dig too deep a meaning.) My dream got me thinking about being a mom to a girl and her looking to me as her first example of what a woman should be. I always looked to my mom as an example of how a woman should act, what she should say, and what she could do.

With that in mind, if our little baby turns out to be a girl these are the things that I, at this point in my life, would like her to learn about what being a woman means:

1.Women are strong, physically, emotionally and mentally. This does not mean that it's not OK to cry or to ask a man to open a jar for you. That does not make you weak. Allowing anyone to dominate you, physically, emotionally or mentally, is what will make you weak.

2. Women and men are not the same. We need to celebrate our differences. Equality with men is important, but equality does not mean being identical.

3. Your career is in your hands. Don't let anyone tell you that you're not qualified to do something because you're a woman. No matter what you choose to do -- astronaut, doctor, lawyer, stay at home mom -- pursue it with your whole heart and full of passion.

4. Being smart and being pretty are not mutually exclusive. One of the most fun things about being female is the fashion, make-up and style that are uniquely our own. Don't feel like you have to forgo those things in order for someone to take you seriously. And, most importantly, don't ever play down your intellectual ability for the sake of a boy's ego.

5. Sports are not just for boys. Both the enjoyment garnered from playing and watching them belong to you too.

6. Women come in all shapes and sizes. Be healthy and whatever body that state of being generates, embrace it. Life would be boring if every woman wore a size 0. Happy people are always more beautiful than miserable people.

7. Do not depend on anyone else to define who you are as a person. Figure out who you are separate and apart from anyone else. The important people in your life will help shape who you become, but it's up to you to put those pieces together to make a whole person.

8. Every girl has an awkward phase. We get braces and pimples and have a bad hair cut and feel like we will never be pretty. You will become more beautiful each day of your life due in no small part to the confidence you will gain along the way.

9. Don't confuse love and sex. If a boy really loves you, he will wait for you. If he tries to get you to sleep with him by telling you he loves you, he doesn't really love you.

10. When you find that man that you will spend the rest of your life with, cherish him. Treat him the way you want him to treat you.

This is the woman I strive to be and the woman I hope I raise a daughter to be.

Stephen and I headed to Denver for Labor Day weekend to hang out with our good friends the Poetschkes. While we were there, my family in Denver threw a shower for me which was lots of fun and my first time to be the guest of honor at a baby shower.

Rosa told me on our way to the shower that she didn't know why, but she always got face-of-the-sun-hot during her showers. I am the type who is typically always looking for a blanket, so I thought it wouldn't be a problem for me. However, by the time I finished opening presents, I must have undoubtedly reeked from the gallons of sweat puddled next to me. I wondered for a second if I could just take finish up the festivities sans clothing. I remembered reading somewhere that getting nude for these types of showers was a faux pas, so I played it safe. I'm evaluating my most breathable clothes for my next shower.

As a side note, one of my cousins brought her 7-year old daughter. Her daughter didn't want to come at first because she thought that everyone would actually be bathing me in a shower. Prettty funny.

Seeing the Poetschkes was lots of fun and made us both miss them even more. Their daughter, Lola, was born last December. Shortly thereafter they packed up and moved to Denver so we haven't spent much time with them in their new role as parents. It was my first time spending long periods of time on consecutive days around a baby since becoming pregnant. That weekend I had moments of great comfort and moments of absolute terror.

Being pregnant is starting to get pretty physically uncomfortable. I think I may have pulled a muscle under my rib cage from all the stretching my body is enduring. There's a part of me that's just ready for pregnancy to be over so I can lie on my stomach, drink alcohol, play soccer, and run without it being uncomfortable. Watching Stephen and Rosa with Lola, I had moments of, "Hooray! I can't wait to meet little Horace (my new code-name for our child). Being a parent looks like it's fun."

But, those moments were closely followed by thoughts of, "How many times a day does she eat? Do you get to do anything but feed her? When does she wake up in the morning? Does that include weekends? How much spit can she possibly create and why does none of it stay in her mouth?"

I think the closer we get to B-day, the more I realize how completely unprepared I am to become a mother. But, is anyone ever really prepared to enter that world? Since I've never done it before, it's so foreign and it's completely unnatural to my current state of things. I'm not saying I'm not excited to meet little Horace and take him or her home with us, I'm just saying that maybe I'll deliver a little late. . . like two or three years late.

So, I did it.

I became one of "those girls". The ones that get overly anxious about nothing and make the answering service at their doctor's office page their doctor so she can ask her a ridiculous question. Without going into too much personal detail, on a Wednesday afternoon not so long ago, I felt like something was not right "down there." Like maybe there was too much fluid or something. Again... the details aren't essential.

So I did what any proud member of the Age of the Internet would do: I Googled my issue. Within about 15 minutes, I was convinced that my amniotic sac had broken and I was leaking amniotic fluid.

Now, for the sake of full disclosure, I confess that I am a worrier. I worry about Stephen if I can't get in touch with him within a 2 hour period. My over-reactions aren't limited to Stephen, though. I once made Stephen drive out to Rockwall to make sure my mom was OK because she didn't call me back within 24 hours. Apparently I like to give myself a time schedule on which insanity is permissable.

In spite of these stories, though, I'm generally pretty even keel when it comes to medical issues. I have previously read stories about women who had their doctors on speed dial in the event of any and all pregnancy-related concerns. Working for a company where the people I deal with are located all over the globe, I have first-hand experience of how frustrating it can be for someone to expect you to be available at all hours of the day and night. So with that in mind, I try to be respectful of the fact that my doctor has family, friends and a life outside of being my personal answering service.

Back to the story, then.

After my Google research, I called my doctor's office only to discover that it was already closed. The message said to dial 911 if it was an emergency (I was still rational enough to know that wasn't necessary) or to dial 0 to to immediately speak with a doctor.

I wasn't sure.

Did I need to immediately speak to a doctor? I felt like that statement should be followed by, "Reasons you would NOT need to immediately speak to the doctor and should probably just calm down and stop overreacting include..." The problem would have been solved right then and there as I'm sure my issue would have been on that list.

So being unsure of whether to press 0 or not, I hung up and called Stephen. Keep in mind that Stephen has no formal medical training.

I explained the situation to him he recommended I call back and talk to the doctor if I was this nervous. So, I called back and pressed 0 and here's what happened next:

Answering Service: "Good evening, Dr. Krum and Dr. Carmichael's answering service."

Me: "I guess."

They paged the doctor. The one on call that night was not my doctor, but he responded to my page rather quickly. I guess leaking amniotic fluid at 25 weeks isn't exactly in the realm of "good for the pregnancy."

The doctor was nothing but sweet as he went through my issue with me. He told me that leaking amniotic fluid usually means fluid running down your leg. When I explained to him that my issue was not even in the same time zone as that, he kind of chuckled and said, "This is your first one isn't it?"

It was then that I knew it had happened. I had become one of "those girls."

How had that happened? I've prided myself throughout my pregnancy on not getting worked up or worried about anything silly and here I was taking away precious personal moments from this doctor because I was experiencing a pregnancy symptom that every pregnant woman experiences and, to be honest, that I've been experiencing since finding out I was pregnant.

"I was just worried," I told the doctor.

He assured me that he was glad I had called to assuage my fears and that if I was still concerned tomorrow, they would have no problem with me coming in and running a test.

So, I learned two valuable lessons that night: (1) I am not immune from being "that girl" and (2) never, ever, under any circumstances, rely on Google for answers to your medical questions.

Stephen and I were talking the other night about having a baby and how it would change our lives. We both understand that we'll be losing the freedom and flexibility our current lifestyle affords. In principle, this concept is easy to understand, even if it is overwhelming. Specifically, though, what makes me nervous is that I can't really understand how much of this freedom we will lose until our little guy or girl is born. And even then, I imagine it is an evolving process, not just an event.

So while I can prepare myself to go out less, get up earlier, be covered in baby spit up -- I won't really know what my life will be like until the baby is outside of my womb. Not being a huge fan of the unknown (unless it comes to not finding out the gender of my baby), this is an overwhelming thought.

With that in mind, I thought I should start getting myself ready in other ways. I was talking to a co-worker of mine the other day who has a 5 year-old. She was telling me how she had to discipline her child because he said the word"stupid". Apparently "stupid" is not a word that is allowed around their house.

That got me thinking about all the words I use on a regular basis that are probably not baby appropriate. I try not to use profanity, but freely confess that traffic and machines that do not do what they are supposed to do (even though I'm, of course, doing everything correctly) sometimes inspire a rage in me that can only be quelled by uttering words from the forbidden pages of the dictionary.

This habit seems a lot easier to cure, though, than some of the words that are more firmly planted in my vocabulary. For example, I often refer to things (or people) as "retarded", "stupid", or "dumb". I often say "shut up" and I regularly threaten to beat Stephen up (which causes him great fear. . . I'm sure) when he doesn't obey my benevolent and loving commands. As a child, these are all words and phrases that I remember being off limits (especially before we were exposed to the more egregious curse words).

So now, when I find myself saying "that's retarded" or "that's dumb" or "I'm going to kick your butt, Stephen" (which is usually followed by a "you wish you could" and me responding "you wish I couldn't" and this goes on for awhile as you can imagine), I realize I'm going to have to change the way I speak . . . very soon.

This realization also led me to the realization that my sense of humor is not necessarily G rated. If you've ever been out in public with me (and especially if you're the Poetschkes), you've no doubt been victim to one of my too loud, inappropriate jokes (usually induced by wine). I also find bodily functions hilarious and good topics for conversation (sometimes even meal conversation).

Now, you may be thinking – "What's wrong with her?" If so, we probably haven't spent enough time together. Seriously, let's hang out and you'll see how hilarious poop can be.

Or, you may be thinking – "She's right, that kid is going to be MESSED up." In which case you've probably spent too much time with me and probably wish you could erase from your mind some of my off-color jokes for which I apologize.

In any case, the clock is now ticking down for me to learn how to sensor and/or change myself. At the rate I'm going, my child's first phrase will be "mommy is dumb" followed closely behind by a poop joke.

I posted a couple weeks ago that shopping is no longer as fun as it used to be. This statement is still true when it comes to shopping at my favorite non-pregnant stores. Last week, though, I experienced maternity clothes shopping for the first time.

I had held off on this endeavor because I didn't want to spend a lot of money on clothes that I won't be wearing very long. However, after a never-ending struggle with the Bella Band, I decided it was time to make a trip to the mall. For those not in the know -- the Bella Band is a strip of material that fits snuggly from below your chest to your hip bones that holds pants up and smooths them out without them needing to be buttoned and/or zipped.

Here's my problem with the Bella Band -- my baby is lying as low as it possibly can right now. So my lovely baby bump is low enough that even my lowest pants don't button let alone zip. The Bella Band claims to solve this, but unfortunately for me, I end up with pants that look like they don't fit right. Couple that with anxiety that the bottom part of my zipper is going to unravel unexpectedly at work. That's not really the kind of exposure I'm looking to add to my life experience.

So, with much reluctance, I drug myself to Destination Maternity to locate some maternity pants. Destination Maternity includes three different maternity shops rolled into one:

(1) Pea in the Pod: for people who enjoy spending too much money on their clothes

(2) Mimi Maternity: for people who don't enjoy over-spending on clothes, but are still willing to do it

(3) Motherhood: for smart people who realize they're only going to be wearing these clothes for a brief period of time

I have a confession to make; I fall squarely in the Pea in the Pod category.

Hi, my name is Michelle and I am a clothes snob. I've tried not to be. I go to Ross and Target and attempt to outfit myself there, but it just doesn't work out. I get overwhelmed by the number of racks, the number of items on each rack and the number of people at each rack.

After much frustration, I give up and head to Anthropologie or Nordstrom. It is in these places where I enter into a peaceful state-of-mind the moment I step through the door. $85 for a t-shirt? No problem. I'm paying partly for the experience right? I tell myself these things.

Granted I'm not exactly a Neiman Marcus type clothes snob, even I draw the line somewhere. That line, though, is faint and in continuous movement.

So back to my story.

I picked out some lovely maternity pants. They were great, yet so lonely. They needed shirts to accompany them, at least in the fitting room. I mean . . . the one I was wearing would simply not suffice. So I ended up in the dressing room accompanied by about 2,348 items - give or take a few dozen.

I must admit: trying on the maternity clothes was pretty fun. My hump is still small enough that it falls into the "cute" and not the "oh my God, give her room she could blow at any moment" category.

I eagerly came home with my carload of purchases prepared to put on a mini-fashion show for Stephen. Lights, cameras, the catwalk... it was going to be great.

His response? "I thought you were just going to buy pants."

Oops, my bad. They were having a great sale . . . weren't they?

Armed with my new ensemble of maternity clothes, I told Stephen all I still "needed" was a pair of maternity jeans. He rolled his eyes at that one, but agreed to go to the mall with me the following Saturday night. While I didn't find any maternity jeans, I somehow did manage to find a few more dresses and tops to add to my maternity collection from Japanese Weekend.

Oops, my bad.

So, the moral of the story?

Maternity clothes shopping can be kind of fun. But in my case, as with all shopping, it should always be done with adult supervision.