First things first: Yes, I wish I were going to Hunger Games this afternoon, and yes, I'm waiting for my HG necklace to arrive. And yes, I just had a conversation about how, although I like to think of myself as tough, I would probably be Capital rather than even a townie from one of the districts.
I would never make it in the Seam in District 12, for example. And Nick is the only one with any chance of surviving the arena.
Also, I'm not actually this gleeful about the tremendosity of the baby house I'm carrying around. I'm tired and whiny and complainy and bitter and disgruntled. I've begun commuting with a full backpack for a couple reasons: one, it's easier than carrying my bag across my body, and two, it kind of balances me out.
But Nick and I were going to take a picture this morning, and then our delightful progeny, light of our lives, was, quite frankly, such a tremendous asshole that it made the entire morning extremely chaotic.
And so I asked my friend Michele if she would take it in her office. I closed her door, peered out the window to see if anyone would see me partly nakey against the door (no), and bared my belly. She burst out laughing, and I did, too.
I'm sure it falls under Not Appropriate Office Behavior. Much like furtively changing in your cube while your Quad-mates keep a lookout.
Anyway, the pregnant.
This past week the girl started stabbing me somewhere very terrible. It's like she took one of her wee fingers (with fingernails!) and poked it repeatedly into my, I don't know, bladder? cervix? Somewhere internal and ooh! ooh! ooh! tender.
It's mostly been intermittent, but she kept it up for a good hour the other day.
If that won't make a person bitter, I don't know what will. It's very hard to walk to work or carry on a conversation with little sharpy pokes in tender places.
This past week Jordan also suddenly took notice of my belly. No matter that I've been putting his hand on it, talking about the baby sister, asking if he can feel her move, for weeks now. Now it is big enough that it inconveniences him.
He was sitting on the edge of what is left of my lap (thankfully we visited the hot eye doctor while I still had more of one), and suddenly put his hand on my prodigious belly and said, "WHAT IS THIS?"
So we talked about the Baby Sister! And how much she's going to love him! And how she is going to be here soon! And bring presents!
And he asked, "Who is her mama and daddy?"
"I'm her mama and Daddy is her daddy."
"NO! YOU'RE NOT HER MAMA! DADDY ISN'T HER DADDY! NO!"
All I can say is, the de-throning is going to be very good for him. And all of us.
May the odds be ever in your favor, my little friend. Except when you're throwing a huge tantrum on the floor. Then I'd like them to be in mine.