My Three Youngest Kids & Their Nana.
Mood:
happy
Topic: Miscellany
Belly Shot. (Not to be confused with one of those shots of hard booze you take out of someone's navel.) I forgot to make Ben take a belly shot over the weekend, so here is one taken in my home office mirror at 6:30 a.m. That explains the shitty lighting and the reason my head, which appeared only as a flash of white light with curly brown hair anyway, is cropped out. Typically huge for one of my pregnant bellies at 22 weeks, and I must say there is nothing like a gigantic belly to make one's enormous Polish ass look smaller. And one's boobs, now that I think about it. You win a few, you lose a few.
Despite my ongoing Fear of Fatness, the scale revealed this morning that I've gained only 14 total pounds so far this pregnancy, and clearly that's all belly. I'm relieved; I keep expecting to get on the scale and find I've gained eight hundred pounds, all of it composed of Italian food and all of it residing in my thighs.
This week I'll get Ben to photograph my belly uncovered, so as to display the lack of stretch marks about which I am so insufferably smug. That is, if I can persuade him that I'm not using such photos to entice Internet wankers. Did you know there is a whole subclass of online porn featuring pregnant women? It's unspeakably perverted -- I fail to see what could be sexually attractive about a naked pregnant woman, except
possibly to the guy who impregnated her, but it's true. Ben, however, can put his mind at ease. He and only he will be forced to look at my pregnant nakedness.
Speaking of the guy who impregnated me, we were reflecting the other night that our two youngest children, Matt and Julia, owe their existences to booze. It's true: Matt is the result of bathtub-sized Margaritas in Old Town San Diego at a time when we were fixing to get ready to try to make a baby anyway; Julia is the product of a bottle of good Central Coast zinfandel and an ill-timed, spur-of-the-moment decision to skip the condom. Let this be a lesson to the young.
Alcohol really does lead to teen pregnancy, or worse, middle-aged pregnancy.
Sam & Matt Shots. They were clowning around Friday night and I got some truly choice photos, having somehow persuaded Haz Matt to hold still once or twice. We did
not, by the way, instruct him to pose with underwear on his head, although it's just the sort of thing we would go and do; it was solely his own idea. Shortly after these were taken, Sam procured another pair of miniature jockey shorts which he wore on his own head in a number of fetching styles: Ninja, with only the eyes and nose showing; Babushka, over the forehead and under the chin; and Monster, covering the entire face with the hands making
rahhhhh! claws. Their father was so proud of them: Not even in preschool yet and already wearing underwear on their heads. Surely bright futures await both of them.
My mom is doing a whole lot better and is going home from the hospital this morning. Let's hear it for old girls with gumption! She had me really scared the night her lung collapsed, but she has bounced back admirably and we were giggling together when I went to visit her last night. I am
so jazzed about this -- she's got a ton of fight in her, and that's going to be of enormous help. We still don't have a prognosis, but I'm more optimistic than I've been since the initial diagnosis.
Have a winsome and productive week, y'all. Remember,
Arbeit macht frei!
Posted by Gretchen
at 8:38 AM PDT
Updated: Monday, April 18, 2005 9:27 AM PDT