I woke up this morning to a huge mug of fresh milk, courtesy of dear Eric. This has become a daily routine ever since we found out the good news, and I've grown to dread it thoroughly and thoroughly.

Before this whole business of no more periods, I was a milk lover. I used to enjoy drinking Susu Lembu Asli and would purchase cartons and cartons of milk in different brands. So the moment we got our pregnancy positive on the test, I told Eric to get me a can of EnfaMama – ambitious lady that I was, determined to give the growing baby in me every nutrient available. Eric's all about the calcium and pumping me up with whatever's available so that baby doesn't take away the goodness from my bones, so he's always nagging me to 'drink more milk, drink more milk.'

Alas, I didn't count on losing my love for milk completely. Within 3 days I was rejecting wonderful EnfaMama (the can now sits forlornly on a corner of the kitchen counter), and Eric, panicking, decided that I would switch to either Farmhouse, Good Day, Dutch Lady of Marigold, whichever works. Now the daily morning cup of milk is pure torture, and I hate it to death, but each morning, religiously, I hold my breath and swallow it. Later, I'd spend the next one hour desperately trying to keep the milk in, lest I puke it out (I don't have morning sickness, but my body seems to reject foods that taste odd to me).

I've got six more months of milky mornings to go through, so not looking forward to it. *sniff*

p.s. A friend asked me I was still going to call my baby Paul if he were a boy, after the crazy whacking that I've been getting from some very angry commenters (actually there's not so many, just the same person keeps coming in as both Paul and Kenneth and comments incessantly so that's why its getting quite hilarious)  in the past few posts, and my take is this: why not? Paul's a good name, and that person is probably a good person who just doesn't hold my opinion. It doesn't take away my desire to name my son Paul. So there's that.