Wednesday, April 22, 2009

random...

Here I sit checking e-mail, facebook friend statuses, and reading blogs. I've allotted myself 10 minutes and I have a cup of hot (albeit re-heated) coffee. After this I have laundry to sort and get in the washer, a bathroom to clean, a daughter's teeth to brush, a mommy whose appearance is sadly beyond hope these days, and some playtime with the tot. Emory is happily engaged in Sesame Street on the boob tube and I have plied her with snack and juice so I shouldn't have to be interrupted. Here comes the pitter-pat of some tiny feet (she really does have small feet!), my daughter enters my room, crosses her arms and announces with disdain, "It was yucky."

I howl with laughter because she really is just so darn cute, but inside I'm a tad bit frustrated. What is yucky, you ask? Well, Emory has a strange relationship with some foods. She really wants to eat them, will even ask for them, but after chewing them to death she just can't seem to swallow. I follow her to the living room and, sure enough, there are 3 slices of orange that she really tried to eat, but resulted in being deposited in the napkin I gave her. I'm getting smarter. At least I remembered to give her a napkin. So, now she's munching a granola bar. Go figure. The texture of an orange gets her but she snarfs down granola.

And, Robin, that belly shot is coming, but it is with much humiliation that I will post it. To put it simply, Ethan is a lot lower than Emory ever was. So, I feel like when I turn sideways there is a bump in the rear to match the one in the front and I have completely lost any resemblance to my former self. My friend, Lisbeth, at church was wearing a dress (a one-piece dress) on Sunday and I commented on her bravery. I will not wear anything that is not 2 piece past this point. I simply can not tolerate the tent affect caused by the bumps. And I so don't get it. I've been so much better this preganacy and have not gained nearly the weight I did with Emory, but my butt is so much bigger. Maybe all those old wives' tales about how you carry boys have a small smidgen of truth about them?

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