An Apology To My Husband

To my dearest and ever loving husband,
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife

Googer Hurts, Mama

Firstborn ran up to me one day last week with his finger outstretched and waving wildly. He kept repeating this phrase: "Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."

Monday- Pull Head Out Of Hiney

I hate to be that person who not only neglects their blog, but writes a blog to apologize for said neglect. But, this afternoon I am indeed that person. The past three weeks have been really busy with Hubby's parents coming to visit, Firstborn's second birthday, and the planning and replanning of his party. Not only was I super busy, but it seems my endless energy is now finding its way to an end. I suppose that's to be expected since I'm only six weeks away from due date. I have had several ideas for new articles and hope to find the time sometime within the next week to finally commit them to the blog. So...for those emailing me nasty little notes about my blog neglect, message received. I'm writing it on my calander: Monday - pull head out of hiney and get busy confessing.

Pass The Gas, Please

I'm craving one of my favorite southern meals: meatloaf, stewed potatoes, pinto beans, and cornbread. It's what's on the menu tonight. I'm even considering jacking this up a notch by adding broccoli and cheddar to the cornbread. The only thing missing at the moment would be fresh sliced tomato, but I'm too much of a tomato snob to enjoy one from the local big box market. But soon, very soon they'll be coming into season and I'll be able to hit my local produce stand up for one of those juicy Better Boys or Big Berthas.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.