So that happened this week. My sweet mother making a mockery of a situation that had my husband reaching into his pocket for his leatherman to see if he could make headway on a stuck zipper that split in half the minute it was coaxed, leaving me with no way out of a lacy, delicate, meant-for-a-more-formal-occasion bridesmaids dress and a Husband who followed me around the bedroom tugging up and yanking down with pure determination while I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe and almost peed myself, which would have added an entire new level to the amount of damage control needed to rectify the dress situation before my brother-in-law’s August 29th wedding.
When I finally caught my breath enough to stop wiggling the two of us looked at each other and decided that, well, …..RRRIIIIPPPP….
Because sometimes a pregnant lady’s zipper needs a man’s touch.
And in this case, if I didn’t want to wear it until I was wheeled into labor and delivery, it was our only option.
And that is just one lesson I have learned from five months spent watching this belly grow.
The other new discoveries? My mom has a new found knack for comedy and I have made friends with a new seamstress in the big town.
Because shit is getting real I tell you. And no one is more thrilled to see my shirts getting tighter or hear about my baby-bladder-kicking woes than my family.
Oh, your pants don’t fit? Harah!
I guess that’s what I get for keeping them all waiting for seven years.
And my handyman, dress altering Husband hasn’t found his sympathy card either, despite my sweet reminders that it is his job as the father of this tiny, bladder squeezing human we created together.
But he has been nice about letting me wear his clothes. In fact, I’m positive he got great joy out of getting me into his overalls to go out and check the cows upon the harsh realization that there was no way in hell any of my work jeans would ever fit over my gut again.
He even suggested that I wear his favorite purple polo shirt, the one I despise, and while I stood in the closet in my bra and underwear contemplating wearing the tent my mother suggested, he slipped it over my head, turned me around, took a picture and then made his third or fourth Homer Simpson reference…
You know, because of my ass to belly ratio.
Which is what it’s come down to now. Me, popping Tums, falling asleep in the easy chair as soon as I sit down, snoring like I’ve never snored before, putting bacon on everything, burping, pulling over on the side of the road to pee, wearing men’s work clothes and avoiding bending over at all costs.
Yup. Homer Simpson…
Give me four more months and I might take you up on that call to tent and awning sweet, hilarious mother.
In the meantime I’ll take another BLT please…
Peace, Love and potty breaks,
Jessie & the Bump