Happy Thanksgiving, Buttfart Face!

Last night, the kids and I read Guess How Much I Love You? before bed. (Junior, at the sophisticated age of 7, sighed through the whole book; Everett, almost age four, ate it up.) As I kissed the boys goodnight, I got to hear their own special and moving professions of love:

"Uh...Big Nut Brown Mom? I love you more than a million farts!"

"Good one, Everett. Mom? I love you more than 10,000 poops!"

Hysterical laughter.

"I love you more than if the sun farted on the moon!"

"Well, I love you more than 50 hundred butts! And farts!"

More hysterical laughter. 

"Good night, guys. That's all very touching. Now zip it."

More hysterical laughter. 

"Whisper, whisper, fart, fart."

"Whisper, whisper, butt, butt."

More hysterical laughter.

"Good night! No more talking you little hares!"

Just then the babysitter arrived. I grabbed my coat and headed downstairs. The boys were still whispering and laughing hysterically. Meanwhile, my girlfriend was waiting for me at the local pub, which, oddly, we now operate.

As I drove off, I sighed contentedly. I'm okay with being loved in currencies of butts, farts and poops (i.e., the language of little boys) but my God, it's a beautiful thing to be able to drive away from it.

Have a great holiday everyone!

Oh husband, where art thou? Oh right, under that pillow

So bam! All of a sudden I'm 7 months pregnant. And, like I've heard, you really do pop sooner with your third. My bump is ginormous. Truthfully, I thought I'd feel all Mother Earthly with this pregnancy because it's my last (you know, lots of time by the fire rubbing coconut oil on the bump and humming it nursing rhymes) but instead I find myself wanting to push the bump out of the way so I can race through life's daily to-do list (e.g., child rearing, working, laundry, dishes, coaxing the dog to poop, restaurant owning, etc.) so I can finally sit down to relax.

But silly me, life doesn't want me to relax. No, life wants me to push back my shirt sleeves and go at it even more gang busters. How do I know this? Because right after Chuck stopped moaning about his kidney stone, he broke his ankle.

I swear, the man is trying to kill me. I mean, I knew I wouldn't be sitting on the couch eating bon bons with this pregnancy but I at least thought I'd get to sit down and gaze longingly at a bon bon wrapper or two.

Nope. Two weeks later Chuck's ankle is still the size of a grapefruit and he's still moaning about it. Between the pillows elevating his ankle in bed and all the damn pillows I've got wedged into my crevices to prevent night time leg cramps and butt cramps and side cramps, we can't even find each other in the bed.

Yes, sadly, all the moaning we do in bed is from bodily pain and all the searching we do is for more duck feathers, not each other. It's ok though, it really is. This too shall pass. Before we know it, Chuck's ankle will be healed and I'll be bumpless and the proud mother of one of these:

Another bouncing baby boy.

As in three boys.

And then, what will become of all those pillows that aided me and Chuck during our moments of pain? Oh, they'll get used. For forts and trampolines and fights and armor and thwaps on the head and knock-out-surprise-attack-side-swipes.

Because, let's be honest, with three sons we'll basically be raising a litter of puppies.

Chuck, notice I said "we"? We! You're getting up with the baby even if you have to hobble to the changing table dammit!