Ladies, control yourselves.
If this is a fucking metaphor for my future or perhaps some really intense foreshadowing, seriously, I’m not that into it.
Being that my son is now a week late and taking his sweet time, I fear this may indicate ending up with a 40-year-old, video-game-playing man-child who lives in his parents basement until eternity. He likes his home that much. Dear God.
I was never much for picking favorites when I was a teacher, but as far as being a parent? Cora’s killing it so far. KILLING it.
And there is only so much voodoo one woman can handle in a few weeks. Trust me, I’ve done it all in the name of gettin’ this little guy to buck up. I’ve got until Friday to get him out on my own or he’s coming out via slicing me. Eek. They won’t induce a VBAC patient. Please Little Man, please.
Either way, we’ll have a baby by next weekend, which is something. And either way, I am done wiping asses by the age of three, mmmmk?
Oh tell me there’s nothing symbolic here…
Well, Luker’s birthday is right around the corner. Time to get my bake on. Those of you who read my blog know that Luker is pretty into boxed cake, despite my love of homemade cookin’.
This year, I asked him what he wanted and he immediately responded “Funfetti.” Obviously. But then he sat for a moment deep in thought. I have this killer vegetarian cookbook that a friend’s parents gave us when we got married. It has all kinds of recipes…including desserts.
“How about spotted dick?” He said laughing, referring to this o-so-fabu cookbook. I thought it was funny too. Spotted dick. What about that is not funny? Exactly.
I’ve looked at the recipe a million times, but never actually made it. I somehow can’t imagine making one and then having the in-laws over: “Here, have a piece of my warm, spotted dick,” I’d say as I brushed my hands on my apron.
But this time, I’m goin’ for it. That’s right people, thanks to Luker’s birthday, we’ll be eating our first spotted dick.
It looks like our time together has come to an end.
My tummy, it’s a growin’, a mountain so strong,
You should see how my booty now swallows a thong.
‘Bout two years I paid you so much attention, you know?
Alas, waxing and grooming and laser hair removal no mo’.
Out of sight out of mind, or so they say,
It seems I didn’t shave for yet another day.
I’ll see you in full length mirrors, and post-baby, perhaps.
Our dear, poor, sweet Luker, that unlucky chap.
It isn’t my fault, I promise, I swear,
I’ve got a wee-human that’s living in there.
So Dear Husband, if you can, forgive me please,
if it appears you can no longer see the forest through the trees.
A little collaborative effort by Luker and myself..
I am dying a slow and painful fashion death. It’s just terrible. I am clinging on to my wide-leg trouser pants with the tips of my teeth, praying that things will change soon. But I seriously don’t see the end in sight.
I think after all this time skinny jeans have been misinterpreted. They are NOT for the general public. They are for the SKINNY public (those with long, skinny legs).
Those of us endowed with hearty thighs and butts are made to look even healthier when wearing a pair:
The absolute worst is when men wear them. My God.
I donno about you, but my first thought is: tiny pecker.
But it’s not just the skinny jeans. Even the shoes throw me:
It’s fine, I need to learn to deal with it all. Fashion changes. And I need to update I guess. I am definitely starting to feel like one of those moms who came into our high school rocking feathered hair and tight jean shorts because she really liked the 80s.
I’ll be cool again. Give it another five years and you’ll all be begging to borrow my clothes.
Setting: On a hot date, Pearl Street Mall in Boulder, surrounded by art fair booths, eating at our new fav sushi place, Kasa.
Brie: These appetizers are freaking delicious, don’t you think?
Luke: (Chewing continuously, unable to answer..then finally..) Yeah, this is a really strong mussel.
Brie: (Without hesitation) That’s what she said.
Way to go me. I pretty much killed it.