So I’m officially done leaving the house until I’m on my way to the place with the epidurals.
I can’t even take a walk around the block without getting stopped by someone who wants to talk about the weather balloon I’m smuggling under my shirt. “When are you due? Do you know what you’re having? Is this your first one?”
Is this my first? What kind of leading question is that? FIRST? People willingly do this more than once?!? You’re not the boss of my uterus, complete stranger person. How about you let me vault out this vagina vermin before we start discussing what other tortures I might subject this body to, mmmmk?
Poor Rocco, all drunk on this wonder of life bullshit, can’t get enough of it. “Isn’t it just so beautiful that you have this instant bonding tool with women everywhere? I mean, it’s like the great equalizer of women – a common ground you share. They all want to talk to you about this magical thing.”
He’s awful lucky I can’t balance on one foot right now.
Yesterday, after having the same conversation with no less than 11 complete strangers, we crashed at the local diner for lunch. After our waitress graciously delivered me another bowl of pickles, another waitress ambled up to the table, her eyes on my crumb-covered belly. Captain Elbows kicked my repeatedly in the ribs. I kicked Rocco under the table.
“Do you know what you’re having?” she cooed.
I sighed. “A complete asshole as far as I can tell.”
I internally reprimanded myself and tried again. “A boy?”
Her face lit up. “Oh honey, that’s basically the same thing.”
THAT conversation was totally worth it.