Every evening when I come home from work, my sweet husband greets me with two questions:
2. How is your urge to kill?
He asks this because he cares deeply about both answers. (Out of both love and self-preservation, I presume.) Both answers will also clue him into what we may be having for dinner, how soon I'm going to bed, and how many people I roasted with my laser beam eyes of hormonal hate that day.
The bump is growing. Most of the time, I love that. Sometimes, at the end of a long day, I know I'm already waddling, which I do not love.
* * * * *
Commentary on the size of the bump is increasing in a proportionate ratio to the bump's size. This week, these things were all said to me:
2. You wear your pregnancy very well.
3. OHMYGOD, you are getting SO BIG!
Two of these comments made me smile with pregnancy radiance. One of these comments made me feel hormonal hate. I will leave it to you to decipher which comment elicited the rage.
Luckily for me, Jack's curiosity (in general, too, but I mean about the baby) has not reached a level where I am not sure how to answer him.
Me: In my tummy?
Jack: Yeah.
Me: Because that's where babies come from. From mommies' tummies.
(Obviously, the next question could be "How did the baby get there?" I am very glad he didn't ask that.)
(Side note: How did that whole stork thing start? Isn't that an odd way to get around answering the procreation question?)
* * * * *
For the record, today is a good day. My urge to kill is not dormant, but is minimal. The woman who bumped into me at the Whole Foods salad bar and then gave ME stink eye, while carefully placing ONE PIECE of roast zucchini in her container, next to the ONE PIECE of broccoli, could easily have been a victim. But that salad bar is so glorious that I refrained. Nothing ugly should happen next to that many organic vegetables.
Hope you're wearing something well today.
Talk soon,
Heather
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