Egg salad makes me giggle like a schoolgirl

So...my bump. My eentsy teensy tiny bump.

I’m due around Christmas, which sucks sweaty, hairy donkey balls. My birthday is right after Christmas, so I know all too well what happens. People lump your birthday into Christmas and give you a “combo gift” (which isn’t any better than what they would have given you had it solely been a Christmas gift) or they forget about it entirely and mail you a crappy card at the end of January, promising to remember it next year.

Which they don’t. Sales of belated birthday cards spike in January. It’s a commonly known fact.

Forget having an actual party the weekend of your birthday. People are too tired after the holidays to even think about putting on a party hat and having a glass of wine with you. “Wah, wah, the holidays wore me out,” they bitch. As if driving 24 hours with two toddlers, two gerbils, and a carload of presents to visit Uncle Fred and Aunt Sue is a legitimate cause for fatigue. Suck it up!

On the rare chance you do rally a few people for keg stands and cake, Mother Nature steps in and gives you a blizzard.

This poor kid.

At least he (or she?) won't be alone. According to the Mulletville OB-GYN, there are a record number of women in Mulletville who are also due around Christmas. The doctor said—and I quote—“I know what you’ve all been up to.”

I got a mental picture then. A picture of all the toothless residents of Mulletville boffing their brains out the same fateful night that Chuck and I did. I tried to set the scene: Did foreplay include petting their mullets to White Snake? Was there post-coital mullet love, too? “Oh Jimmy, this K-Y sure does add shine to yer mullet.”

That made me throw up a little. Of course these days, what doesn’t make me want to barf?

(Egg salad. I cannot eat enough egg salad. Look at it, just bursting with egg salad-y goodness.)



While at the OB-GYN I also found out that because I am 35, I am of “Advanced Maternal Age.” This means I have to purchase my own ultrasound machine and give myself an exam every night before bed to make sure I am not carrying a four-headed, half-gecko, half-orangutan Frankenstein baby.

Will you pray for me?

As much as I resent the geriatric designation, I actually kinda sorta buy into the advanced thing. Whenever possible, I nap under my desk. I live for sweatpants and comfortable sneakers. I purchase products that advertise more fiber.

Also, my patience isn’t what it used to be. Like, when I’m hunched over the toilet because the smell of my deodorant is making me gag, I don’t laugh off Junior’s “Are you sick, Mommy? Are you throwing up? Am I sick? Do you have a GERM? Do you have a stomach bug? Are you sick? ARE you, Mommy? Are you throwing UP? I’m going to throw up. I’m sick too. Bleeeeech. Mommy, see? I’m sick too. Bllleeeeech. I’m throwing up!”

Instead, I yell for Chuck to come take him away. Yes, if being advanced means I get to crawl into bed—alone—and pull the covers over my head at 7:45 p.m., by God I’ll take it.

So that’s chapter one of my bump: egg salad and nautical-themed sweatsuits that swish when I walk. But hey, at least this time my dad is happy for us in that goofy grandfatherly kind of way. At least this time he didn’t think I was coming out of the closet when I was trying to share my good news.

My boss, on the other hand? Not looking forward to the reveal...