Sunday, August 1, 2010
Who put the cuckoo in the cookie jar? Yes, you put the cuckoo in the...
Sunday morning. Chuck, Junior and I are lying in bed.
Junior: Mommy, your butt is big.
Me: What? Chuck, is it? Is it?
I looked at him just in time to see the left side of his top lip twitch slightly. It’s Chuck’s tell. He’s a horrible liar anyway, but the lip twitch is how I know without a doubt that he’s full of shit. It’s also how I know he’d never even attempt an affair. He’d make it, like, two minutes before I busted him.
I jumped out of bed to get a better look at my backside in the mirror.
Me: Oh, God. It is bigger.
Chuck: It’s not. [Lip twitch]
Me: You’re lying.
Chuck: You’re pregnant. Everything is bigger.
Me: I don’t have a baby in my ass, Chuck. I mean, behind. I ate clam strips yesterday. I should be saying no to things like that.
Chuck: You have a right to indulge in things that make you feel good. Like food and walks.
Me: Walks? Walks? You think I need to exercise?
Chuck: [pulls pillow over head] I didn’t mean it like that.
Me: Then uncover your face!
I hate myself for what happened next: I cried. I actually shed tears over the ten (ish) extra pounds I've gained so far. I’m disgusted by myself. I’m not fat. I covered that in my damn Blubber post. I don’t even like hanging out with skinny people who think they’re fat.
People gain weight when they’re pregnant. Then, they lose it.
I don’t like all these cliched chick moments I’m experiencing. The emotional instability and hyper sensitivity are pissing me off. It’s like I walked onto the freaken set of Legally Blonde. What’s next? Tiaras and boas? Bedroom slippers with fluff balls and lilac-scented bubble bath?
It's because I’m having another boy, isn’t it? The Universe read my post about my pink leg lamps and it’s blasting me with a tsunami of sugar and spice.
Or because I’m having a girl.
Yep, my regular doctor told me on Friday that there’s no way in hell the Go-Go doctor could have known the gender at such an early stage.
I find out for sure this week. I don't know about you, but I have my money on the doctor that wasn’t dressed like someone employed to entertain crowds at a discotheque.
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