So. I’m pregnant. I’m about ten weeks. Baby is the size of a big green olive, which is ironic because the thought of olives makes me want to vomit. Along with most foods at this point. I’ve gained six pounds. That’s a lie. I’ve gained more. But I tell myself six because it sounds a lot better. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my entire existence. Smells — any of them — make me puke. My hairspray. My husband. My fabric softener. My car. My dogs. My students. My lotion. Everything. Just smells. The only thing I want to eat is chicken nuggets from Wendy’s. Oh. And ice cream. ALL. THE. TIME. That’s why I’ve only gained six pounds. I’ve chosen the healthy route. My students are confused because my stomach is growing at an abnormal rate. My husband thought for sure the ultrasound would show two humans growing inside my body. But no. Just one little Olive swimming around sucking the energy right out of me. Kate. If she’s a girl. Boy has no name. That is where we are. Ten weeks. Happy as larks. Clueless as could be. Almost parents.