Bean:
She was in the bathroom the other day for a suspiciously long time. I went in to make sure that she hadn't flushed herself, and as I opened the door, it was clear that I startled her. She was standing in front of the towel rack.
"What are you doing, honey?"
"Talking to the towels, Mama."
"Oh, okay. Umm...Are they talking back to you?"
(looking at me like I'm the biggest doof ever) "No, Mama. Towels don't talk."
Chris:
I was mid-way through changing his diaper, and I was letting his boy bits air dry a bit before putting a new diaper on. I gave him a quick anatomy quiz:
"Hey, bud, where's your weiner?"
(Gleefully grabbing his junk and chortling) "Huh huh huh. Big."
So I told you that story to tell you this one.
I managed to humiliate myself in a fast food drive through again. Years ago, after a trip to the Strip to visit old friends, I handed the drive through kid prostitute calling cards thinking that they were money. I rooted around in my purse for the stray bills that I knew were in there, and grabbed the hooker cards by mistake. BY MISTAKE, PEOPLE. The drive through kid recognized what I had handed him before I did. Awkwarrrrrd.
One of the recurring themes in my life is the constant beating into my head the lesson that I AM NOT COOL. I never had cool points, and I'm certainly not gaining them as I age. The universe appears to align the planets such that I will never manage to scrape together any sense of pride. Butt of the Earth's jokes, thy name is Jen.
So I was at the McDonald's drive through recently, and rooting around in my purse without looking (like a moron. This type of situation never end well for me) and managed to pull out cash. So far, so good. However, the back of my hand caught on an empty box of Preparation H, and as I drew my hand out of my purse, the Preparation H box flipped out and landed on top of my belly, which at its current size, can hold two place settings, complete with forks designating a fish course and a fancy folded napkin.
I tried my best to discreetly remove the box from sight, but it was clear from the horrified look on the McDonald's kid's face that he knew exactly what was going on and EWWWW OMG WTF I AM TAKING MONEY FROM A BUTT FIEND! PLEASE GOD LET HER HAVE WASHED HER HANDS BEFORE HANDING ME THIS CASH. I debated explaining that this is my third pregnancy in almost as many years, and yes, hemorrhoids are an incredibly common annoyance that pregnant women must suffer through, and please don't be judgmental about what is obviously an awkward situation for both of OMG LADY PLEASE PLEASE PULL FORWARD I CAN'T LOOK AT YOU ANY MORE GO GET YOUR BURGER AND GO ANUS LADY.
So, yeah. Good job, Cosmos.
ed. note: This post is specifically for Hosanna, who has threatened bodily injury unless I start posting again.
I didn't think that I was suffering from cravings during this pregnancy. With Bean, I would have rubbed someone out in exchange for pineapple. In fact, I deliberately body-blocked the other pregnant women at the hospital childbirth class so that they couldn't get to the fruit tray before I had an opportunity to strip it of all the pineapple. Vicious, wasn't I? In a pinch, I would settle for the canned stuff, much like a drug addict won't mind a little dishwashing detergent cutting into her cocaine if times were tough, but there was no substitute for COSTCO FRESH PINEAPPLE. None. Jesus would have had a much easier time converting people at the wedding at Cana if he has chosen to change the water into Costco pineapple instead of wine. Because for good or for ill, the pregnant women in families a) make the decisions and b) can't drink wine. Costco pineapple is a true miracle.
With Chris, I wanted sour things. I wanted mustard and vinegar and hot sauce. You could have slathered buffalo sauce on ice cream and I would have devoured it. Towards the end of the pregnancy, when I was desperate for any old wives' tale that would induce labor, be it jumping on a trampoline, eating garlic, or tempting fate by driving wayyy out into the desert, the only way that Dimitri could get some husbandly attention was if he would slather Frank's Red Hot on his...nevermind. The doctor did say that hot monkey sex could induce labor, but at that stage, I was so miserably pregnant that poor Dim could not entice me to get near him even if he left a trail of Blazin' Buffalo Wild Wings chicken fingers to the bedroom. Was. Not. Going. To. Happen.
Sorry for making you read that, Dad.
But this time around, I didn't think that I had too much in the way of offbeat cravings. I even bought a tentative pack of Costco pineapple. It was delicious (it always is), but I wasn't tempted to pawn my jewelry for enough pineapple to roll around in this time around. But last night, I was looking at the credit card statements, and it hit me: I have eaten more McDonald's in the past eight months than I have in the past eight years.
I don't really like McDonald's. The food is salty, fatty, and in no possible way good for you. Even the fruit cups probably list lard as an ingredient. And who likes hog fat with their grapes, I ask you? McDonald's is nothing but salt and fat and a spooky-ass clown, so naturally, every child of my generation loved it. But I lost the taste for it after high school. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against a good cheeseburger. It was, in fact, the first thing that I requested after both of my labors. But there's something about McDonald's food that doesn't seem quite, I don't know, food-like. It's as if the wrappers should say "food-flavored product. Contains artificial and natural flavorings" The natural flavorings are, of course, hog fat on grapes.
I can tell you now that I won't be eating McDonald's after I give birth. I know that the cravings will fade like they did twice before. Plus, I'll be nursing, and I really don't want my milk to taste like rehydrated onions and McNuggets. But for now, it is one of the few indulgences I have during this pregnancy, so I'm loath to give it up just yet. But I think I should probably slow down.
After all, I don't think that Dimitri could get his hands on enough special sauce in order to...nevermind.
Sorry dad.