Still. Pregnant.
*head: desk*
Last night I dreamt this kid came out weighing 50 lbs. I blame Thom for sending me this video.
Fucker.
Fortunately, I also dreamt I was a professional ice skater, so I’m going to hope this isn’t some sort of premonition.
Yesterday some lady at the mall I’ve never seen in my life started rubbing my belly while telling me he’s way too high to come out anytime soon. Mom’s response? “I thought you’d been exaggerating.”
Me? Exaggerate? Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?
Anyway, I’m having trouble focusing BECA– USE THIS KID IS GAINING A POUND A WEEK AND I’M HAVING A HARD TIME WRITING A EULOGY FOR MY VAGINA so, instead, here’s a supportive email I received from my friend Don:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
No one yet. Just wanted to Paul your leg.
*sigh*
Ah! The good old days when you could publicly ridicule overweight children. Good times.
Why is Paul high? Have you been eating any special ‘brownies’?
Makes you never want to eat again, right?
I had a ten pounder the second time around but like I always enjoy telling you he exited through the emergency hatch in my lower abdomen leaving my vagina as alive and kicking as it was back in the old days! Anyway, don’t worry it bounces back. Still on Paul countdown over here.
You and me both, lady. The countdown part.
You’re ramblings are friction hilarious, as always! Big hi hi to you and the big guy!
I read that as “Ten Stoned Babies” which is still less oddly captivating than the real video.
There is nothing funnier than the first time you get your baby stoned. They really make a good show of it.
Crazy little fuckers.
I think drunk is so much more likely to happen…
We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Muffy who was tragically lost when she was stretched beyond the breaking point by giving birth to a fire plug named Paul.
*bows head* Hallowed be thy vagina.
My mom claims that boys are carried high and girls are carried low and that’s how you can tell. So, y’know, there’s that. I figure, I know my mom and none of us know the crazy lady at the mall, so my mom’s viewpoint is clearly more valid and closer to the truth. As these things go.
Seems to me the only thing more exhausting than being extremely pregnant is actually having the baby, so maybe you can enjoy this “quality time” in pre-retrospect. ‘Cuz that could be a thing – if you wanted it to.
Also? Good luck!
Heh. Nothing like a little pre-retrospect. New favorite word.
YEEEEEPS! Still there? I was sure today would be the day. I was thinking about it earlier. OCTOBER 6! I’m always wrong though so meh.
Get that thing out of there, he’s cooked already! Plus I want to see him. It’s all about me, you know.
So is Paul really his middle name and his first name is after your first love, ROD? 🙂
Sending your vagina good wishes, dudette.
*grumble*
Paul, dude, it’s motherfuckingbirthintime GTFO.
Tell him, Tom! FOR THE LOVE OF MFBT!
It’s always good to have friends … except when it’s not.
That tends to go for my family, too.
Probably another reason that I should never be preggers: random people feeling it’s their right to touch my belly. Um. No.
Touch me and see how many fingers you come back with. *HISS!*
And speaking in inappropriate toughing, sending you hugs, love.~
Actually, if you start rubbing THEIR bellies right back, they usually back off.
The first baby is almost always late and comes way past the due date, according to every wise old baba I ever knew. Hang in there! And keep practising your figure eights.
Wise old babas suck, apparently.
So, since you seem to be brooding on the non-arrival of Paul, (he can’t help it if his plane was delayed) here is something else to think on. Sara Evans (a semi-popular country music star) has done a remake of “that one rocker who’s name we must not mention’s” 80’s song “My Heart Can’t Tell You No”. Look it up. If that doesn’t induce labor, I don’t know what will. (You already tried the sex, right? Right??!)
♥Spot
I think you should learn “Don’t Stop Believin'” for your next uke performance. Surely you won’t have to perform it because he will take that moment, after you’ve worked your fingers into a bloody pulp practicing diligently, to make an appearance. It’s like Murphy’s Law or something.
It even has his name in it: “Street lights! Peo-Paul!”
Peo-Paul is his new official nickname.
I can always count on you to thoroughly traumatize me through video. The man who wants to be a baby, the baby the size of a man. Yikes.
Two words for you – induce.
I’ll be screaming that at tomorrow’s doc appt.
No, no, this baby is just going for the proper…stonage?
Squeeze really hard.
Ian was 8 days late and I was in labor for 3 more days after that. The reason I’m telling you this is to assure you that it is possible to live through a wild hell of a delay and still be on speaking terms with your husband. But that took awhile. And some jewelry. (Rocco, are you paying attention?)
There is another way to look at this. Maybe Paul isn’t getting bigger. Maybe he’s just farting a lot in there.
I think Paul wants to share the same birthday with you. What a foolish foolish child…
Okay, you are freaking hilarious. I am so on board, and glad that I found you today.