I Learned it by Watching Murphy Brown

The German has recently been upgraded to baby daddy, and I have seen my likelihood of being murdered increase a hundredfold, as I am now officially a “pregnant girlfriend”. As in, ‘pregnant girlfriend shot in what officials consider gang-related shooting spree’, or ‘stabbing victim identified as the pregnant girlfriend of local mayoral candidate’.
Not that the German is running for mayor, or that he’s in a gang (although his bicycling club totally wears matching unitards.)

Here’s what would happen if the pregnancy and its host could write letters to each other…

Dear Betsy,
Please go to the grocery. We are very nearly out of crackers, ginger tea, and mango lassis. And protein.
Your Fetus.

Dear Fetbryo*,
No way. It’s raining out, we still have lots of cherries, plums, and ice cream, and based on how much we’ve been sleeping lately I don’t think we need more than 10 calories per day.

Dear Betsy,
I don’t want diabetes, but I do want ice cream. Please advise.

Dear Wee One,
That’s why God (can’t remember if that’s Ben or Jerry,) made ice cream with peanut butter in it. Afterwards, let’s take a little sip of balsamic vinegar to reduce the glycemic index of ‘dinner’. Tasty!

I am about to give you heartburn like you never thought possible. Also, I will make you crave Robins Eggs like the dickens even though you are 4,000 miles and 11 months from being able to get your hands on any.
Your Robins Egg-Sized Fetus of As Yet Undetermined Gender.

Tiny Trouble,
FINE. I will go to the grocery. What do you want?

I don’t know yet. Let’s wander the aisles aimlessly until I figure it out.

The End

Well, not the end… but the end of that particular conversation.

*As your hilarious Aunt Shelly calls you.

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