Last time, I was so determined. Every month, I told myself, I’d capture the glory of My First Pregnancy with grinning, top-lifting profiles charting my miraculous transformation from overstuffed sausage to adorable basketball to land-borne whale.

But I slacked. And then gained forty pounds, and other priorities mysteriously trumped picture-taking. Like counting onesies. Again. And again. And folding them (ha!) into precious baskets according to colour. No.. no… by size. No, no.. by season.

(Yes, it’s true. Waiting for a watermelon to emerge from between one’s legs inspires chronic, OCD-inspired nest-building.)

And then he arrived, and so it was done. But this pregnancy… well, let’s say it packs twice the spectacle. I am compelled to document JUST HOW HUGE I get, for the same reasons a tourist presses up against the glass of a bus window to snap a real-live New York City mugging.

In one of my only belly-shots from last time (aside from the halloween hippies and the embarrassing, due-date video of a crude interpretive dance involving a broccoli stalk), taken late September of 2004, I am six months along and smaller than I am now at four months.

With two passengers, I popped at a measly 12 weeks.

And yesterday at 18 weeks, perhaps halfway to Explosion Day, I'm already sick of maternity clothes weeks before single-baby mamas even have to unbutton the first snap of their favourite super-hip jeans in order to sit down.

Bring on the wheelbarrow! And pass me a glass of Nestle Quik while you're at it. And while you're up, can you do me another box of K.D.? And don't forget the ketchup. It's not for me. I'm no bottom-feeder. It's for THE BABIES.