Preggo my Eggo Update: 31 weeks down, 9 to go. (Goats are sh*tty hairdressers.)

Friday I had my 30-week checkup and all is well. My Sponsor is weighing in at a hearty 3 pounds, 8 ounces and everything looks great. The only problem: I think my ultrasound technician is obsessed with My Sponsor's balls. I get an ultrasound every four to six weeks to monitor two fibroid tumors that I have. The tumors are no big deal, the Drs just like to keep an eye on them. Well, all of the ultrasounds result in a lot of baby pictures. No good ones, mind you, just a lot of pictures of my son's balls. I find this very weird. Every time we go, she prints me out a picture of his junk with the words, "It's a boy!" next to them. I get it. He has a penis, but do I really need physical proof to show to all of my friends and family? Aren't they called "privates" for a reason? Show the little guy some common courtesy and let him have a little privacy for his in-utero peen. Plus, what am I going to do with 16 pictures of his baby balls?

Me at 31 weeks. You don't get to see my baby's balls, sicko.

Anyway. After our appt, ADD Daddy and I spent the day preparing for My Sponsor. We washed clothes, washed bottles, put everything away and redid The Quiet Contemplator's room to be The Quiet Contemplator's/My Sponsor's room (we live in a two-bedroom loft so they will be bunking up. pictures to come soon.).

After all the heavy lifting on Friday, we decided to have a little fun on Saturday. We headed out to a local wild animal park/petting zoo to enjoy the beautiful day and be attacked by horrible, demon-seed goats feed cute little miniature goats bottles of milk. After we bought our milk, The Quiet Contemplator and I headed into the goat yard. Well, we were there early so apparently the goats were REALLY hungry. Once we got inside the yard, about 50 goats hellbent on being the one to suck the sweet milk of life from the teet of our bottle, swarmed us. I had my arm out protecting TQC from hooves to the face while two goats attacked me and literally ate my hair. The goats had me by the scalp and were jerking me backward while I screamed, "They're eating my hair! They're eating my hair!" to the horror of all the assholes who stood around and laughed on-looking families. By the time my husband got the goats off of me, I had lost some hair. A lot of hair. I pulled out four huge clumps from what I could detangle from all the goat spit and even more in the bath later. Moral of the story: goats make excellent henchmen sh*tty hairdressers.