|I was one of three preggos in the bar. The bartender and I were thinking of |
bumping bellies, but instead we arranged a marriage between our kids.
The Parents Pista have been coming to town regularly to complete construction projects that fall outside of our comfort level. Now all of our bedroom doors close and we don't have to prop a milk crate full of records against ours to keep the cats off our faces at night. My dad also gave the PBG's closet a makeover, which included covering a cracked wall that looked like The Hellmouth. As a person who saw fright faces and demon doors in the swirls of wood on my own childhood closet, I appreciate this. I spent a lot of time worried that the band KISS was going to rock its way into my bedroom. I know fear.
There were a few hiccups during construction. My dad is a slow and steady worker whose mind is always whirring with the next idea for a fix. He explains these stalls matter-of-factly, but you never get the sense that he won't find an answer. Then he gets so far into his own head that he is unable to register human frequencies. You might ask him a question and he might answer if 20 minutes later after plotting a how to re-rig a light fixture.
Just once his frustrations mounted to truly angry, albeit therapeutic: "Darnit! ... Darnit!"
Meanwhile, this has led to way to a wonderful contribution to the master quote board. At one point the construction crew had to make a return trip to Menards. Chuck asked my dad if they should take his car. My dad looked at him and said:
"You can't take a car to Menards."
So now the construction is done, at least the stuff that requires assistance from someone who owns his own door knob hole maker. This all ended ceremoniously with me filling a glass of water at the sink and feeling, suddenly, like I'd been stabbed in the throat.
By the time my mom walked back in the room I was hyperventilating tears, wheezing "The next time you're here I'll have had the ... BABY." (Hiccup). It happened again at the door when they left. This was all very mortifying, as I like to -- at least in front of them -- maintain the personae of a hardened soul who doesn't feel feelings. I'm not sure why. Probably the same reason I automatically sulk whenever I sit in the backseat of their car.
My mom, of course, cackled. She'd heard tell of these outbursts.
"Poor (Chuck)," she laughed.
(Although I think she welled up).
I'm only dreaming in baby. Every fresh dream scene stars one. Most recently a 3-month-old toddled down a long hallway, surrounded by keepers. I understood that this was our child and that it was time for us to pick her up.
"But that can't be our baby," I said, looking at the blonde haired, blue eyed chubby. "Our's would only be three months old and this one can walk!"
"Some of them can walk as soon as they come out," someone told me, bored.
This has been the most physically uncomfortable week of my life. It's exacerbated by swollen ankles, which I study like they are the stars of a petri dish.
Today as I drove home, the PGB head-butted and poked, the slow, lazy movements of a growing person confined to a too tiny space. She poked her butt out, giving my stomach a non-symmetrical alien outline. I have to imagine she wants out as badly as I want to get a look at what I imagine is a scrunched little face with a tiny black path of hair that resembles a toupee.
She must want out as badly as Chuck wants to introduce her to the "Power Puff Girls."