Sometimes life isn't funny. Then it's funny that it's so serious.

I should be writing a hell of a lot more than I have been.  But I'm pregnant.  Oh, how I love universal excuses!

"I'm sorry; I can't get my own hot chocolate.  I'm pregnant."

"Do you know how bad typing is for a pregnant woman?  Do you?  No?  Well, then trust me when I say it's bad.  Very bad.  Can't do my homework.  Doctor's orders."  Okay, I haven't had a chance to use this one.  But I would.  Preferably not on someone with kids.

"I can't pour my own cereal.  I'm pregnant.  And I'm on bedrest."  This would probably work on my mom.  She wouldn't let me lift the cereal when it was in a plastic bag in the grocery store -- (with her wonderfully funny/awesome Korean accent) "Don't lift!  You not supposed to lift!  Doctor said!" -- but it was okay when I wanted to pour my own breakfast.  Question mark.

"But Moooooooooooooooom, the baby wants this ridiculously expensive meal.  It's not my fault.  I'm channeling the baby."  This works.  Sometimes.  Then sometimes she gives me this I know what you're doing, I was pregnant with YOU! look and I get scared.

So yes.  My excuse for not blogging on a pregnancy blog is that I've been pregnant.  Personally, I think it's a wonderful excuse.  Do you?

More seriously, however, I have been on bedrest for the past 2 weeks due to issues with cramping and intermittent spotting.  At first we thought it was because the placenta was low, but we found out on today's ultrasound that it's moved up.  Interesting.  At this point, we're waiting for an appointment with Maternal Fetal Medicine (the "high risk doctors", for those who hate medicalese), and I'm trying not to be bored brainless from laying around all day.  Which is hard.  But I comfort myself with the knowledge that it's for the baby.  Meanwhile, I'm moving in with my mother and my dog and cats are going to Ohio to save my mom from fur overload until everything is settled down.  Also, my husband is off learning crime-fighting secrets and probably gleefully rubbing his hands together and gloating over how he does not have to be near my pregnancy crankiness.  (But it's the hormones making me glare at you, honey.  The hormones.  Totally not my fault!  I blame the baby!)

I'm bored.  Entertain me.  Send me boxes of Skittles.  Something.