Storm, Meet Raine

Little Girl.

HER.

     So let me tell you how my sad freaking two weeks without Carson went.

     It was actually really fun, and no I didn't decide to break up with him again to get him to crawl back to me and do a repeat of that glorious night of sexy time and love affirmations. We've been talking a lot, as if we were becoming best friends. My FaceTime log has originally been full of Bambi and occasionally my mother, but as of recently, all you see is Sperodick with heart emojis with various times. July 11th, July 12th, July 14th (those were when we first got back together). Now it's 11:52am. He called me during his lunch break.

Within our Facetimes, I've toured Ryker's Texas place, saw how messy Carson's room is now that he's not rooming with me anymore. I really hope he can pull it together before our babies come, but then again, he's Carson. Twenty-two years old now, and still can't manage to pick up a condom that I threw on the floor during sex with me, so why would he pick up his dirty clothes?

We'll cross that bridge when we get there.

We've spent every weekend visualizing the kind of house we'd want to have when we decide to move in together, and he's taken it upon himself to sketch it out for us to both see and edit what we don't like. What I pencil in with my horrible drawing skills, he keeps for the time being and when the next weekend comes, it's refreshed and beautiful. I never knew that Carson loved drawing. It was a shock to me when I found out just how much he did after flipping through his sketchbook and seeing sketch after sketch after sketch of me.

Oh he blushed like a little girl when I held up the book, revealing a page of me. The thing with his drawings is that he draws from a particular moment, and it's never a full image. It's as if it's purely from what he remembers in the moment. The one I held up was when he took me on our first date. And it was clear that he somehow captured this image of me in the bath. It was only from my shoulders up, my hair drawn in careful ringlets, some slick to my face from the water, a small patch of bubbles resting on the top of my head. I was smiling with my eyes closed, eyelashes wet with teeny water droplets.

He even had the shadowing of my makeup. It was unreal. He says he always likes to doodle when he's bored out of his mind, but sometimes he finds his hand sketching me and he just goes with it. I adore his adoration for me. It's things like that that make me love him more. He's a detailed kind of man.

If only he can put that detail into cleaning, but I digress. We'll cross the bridge. I can swear on that.

There were more dates. He took me out to dinner at a restaurant to feed me, and while it was extremely good, the twins didn't think so. Our date turn from being cute and super hot with him feeding me seafood pasta, to him holding my hair back as I retched when it felt as if the little fetuses were physically pushing the food back up my stomach (impossible, I know but still). He did feed me strawberries after, so that became our thing for future reference.

I think the babies liked the warm bath and strawberries, and pampering. I know I did. They also appreciate what we call tummy times whenever Carson is around. He'd just lay his head in my lap and kiss my growing belly, talking to them as if they were capable of speaking back. What's weird is that everything calms when he's around. Except for the pasta fiasco, my nausea and the little kicks are minimized. It's as if they sense this is daddy time and they better make the most of it instead of putting me through so much crap.

Speaking of crap my feet hurt, and I have my feet in Carson's lap as he drives us nine hours to his parent's house while simultaneously rubbing my fat feet. Welcome to

MONTH 4.

     "Carson!" I yell from my bedroom, trying to bend down to pick up a pair of socks I rolled into a ball to make my life easier just in case I dropped them. "Carsonnnnn!" I tilt my head up, yelling upward instead of into the floor, not only stuck in a bent over/half squat position, but unable to pick up the damn socks.