In case you haven’t noticed the signs, I’m pregnant.
What are those signs, you ask? Well, let me think.
- My hermit-like phases where I’d rather lay on a bed of nails then talk to another breathing person.
- My inability to walk past flour, eggs, and sugar without making cookie dough and then eating the whole bowl.
- Listening to the beginning of ‘Oklahoma’ and then promptly bawling to my mother about the beauty of the chorus in the background.
- Zombie-like void-of-emotion stares in the mirror as I realize my shot at singing in a chorus on stage for Oklahoma will probably not happen.
- Widening of my eyes as I then realize that if I don’t dye my hair ever again, I’ll possibly be able to play the grandmother for Oklahoma.
- Soaring happiness as I come to the final realization that the role of grandmother would be just fine.
- Looking in the mirror and regretting that bowl of cookie dough.
- Asking if I look fat.
- Running away before you can answer because I really don’t feel like talking to anyone.
…and repeat. Basically I’ve acted pregnant since age 12. Sorry to every person with whom I’ve come in contact.
But this time is for real.
Would ya eat a fricken vegetable already?!?
Fine, baby. You win. But only if I smother it in ranch. I can’t even look at colored foods without losing my appetite.
And then I reached into the goodie-bag given to me from the clinic.
What the cuss is that.
A baby bird?
No, it’s a 12 week fake baby fetus.
After I put my head between my legs and caught my breath again, I picked it up.
And put it up against my belly. Surely it’s bigger than that? I guess I must also be carrying a set of cookie dough quintuplets.
What the heck am I going to do with a rubber fetus? I mean, it’s not even a pencil eraser.
So, I decided Ruth needed another baby to play with and placed it at the end of the coffee table.
No interest, no interest, no interest… and all of a sudden, BAM:
Grubby paws ready for her next victim.
Like any coveted item, it’s immediately place behind the back to protect from others.
And quickly thrown on the ground. Why does it stay scrunched up, she wonders? Maybe if I rock it a bit, it’ll loosen up…
No dice. And so in an obvious imitation of her mother when frustrated with babies, she does the only thing possible:
and passes it off to Ryan.
That’s my girl.
As the day wore on, though, it became an unwelcome reminder of things that need to get under control. Like, dying plants.
Yeah, fetus, I’m gonna get on that.
Or dirty dishes.
Fetus, I know. Gawsh! Put the dishes into the dishwasher throughout the day and you won’t have a sink full by the end of the night.
Sweep the floor? Okay, now fricken leave me alone. You know I’m in my ‘I prefer to not talk to anyone’ phase, and that includes fake 12 week rubber fetus babies.
Ah, now where were we. Oh yeah, I’m pregnant.
And apparently losing it.
This pleases me to no end. Reading it at work…probably not wise. I’m just that girl sitting at her desk with literal LOLs bursting forth with each scroll of the mouse.
I’d get pregnant just to get the free fetus. Luck you.
The fetus will be passed on to you, oh don’t you worry, my friend.