When Atticus was born, I thought this love would kill me, how could I bear it.
I feel pretty good about just letting my hunger and my body do whatever, and just figure it out (or not) after the baby is born.
The thing about people guessing what you’re having, or being really, really certain about what you're having, is they have a 50/50 chance. Odds aren’t bad.
When I finally polish off a big, fat jar of Vlasic dill spears, I gaze down at a pint or so of absolutely mouth-watering pickle juice. And I want to drink the whole entire thing.