I may be hormonal or just italian...or both.

I came home today and decided that it seemed like a good night for spaghetti. I grew up with an Italian grandmother that seemed to make it whenever she wanted everyone to eat a lot so she didn't feel bad about doing it herself. I realize that every time I make spaghetti, it is usually preceded by a long day that may or may not have involved some crying. It is then followed by a lot of complaining and a few calls to every family member to tell them all different accounts of my day...which also means that by the last member the whole story is totally made up and I've got one good daytime television episode.

My spaghetti ended up good and I didn't really get to call anyone because I was so traumatized by Jason putting shredded cheddar cheese on his pasta. Who puts shredded CHEDDAR cheese on their pasta? Seriously.

One of the few things I will never understand. That and how in the world you can eat hot dogs for breakfast? No, really. He does that. Nope, not kidding. I know....

No, really. I KNOW....

Tomorrow I get my hair done. I am hoping to feel like a new woman. I am beyond excited and glad that I don't have show the 6 inch roots at the Christmas party Friday night. New hair makes everything better. That and cheesecake. Mmmmm...cheesecake.

I am officially 32 weeks. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. I have no idea what we are naming this baby girl. It's quite sad. I have really been bonding with her lately and yet she has no name. Poor nameless baby girl. I've been reminded though that Jesus knows her name. He knows her every thought and He is forming her just the way he wants her.

That seems to give me a lot of encouragement when I don't even feel like I know myself sometimes. Well, the hormonal, pregnant woman, that is. So glad that He knows me. He knows my heart. My every thought. Every tear I cry.

Whether it's over the disgraceful shredded cheddar cheese or the raging insecurity I may be feeling at the moment, God knows and he cares.

Thank you, Jesus.