Beating a Dead Horse

I've posted several times in the past month concerning my rapidly expanding girth, and at this point I would leave the subject alone but nobody else will.

OKAY, PEOPLE! I GET IT! I'M HUGE! I'M ENORMOUS! I'M HAZARDOUS TO THE SIDEWALKS, OKAY! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

I've been joking about it a lot, because it's new and funny and every bit as awkard as it seems, but until the last few days it never occured to me that I might actually be abnormally large. I just thought I was regular 31-weeks-pregnant large.

The universerse is proving me wrong.

Yesterday, I was stopped on the street by a complete stranger, who said to me in broken english, "Oh, Hi, How old your baby?"

"Oh," I stammered in suprise, "Um, about seven months, I guess."

"WOW!" she exclaimed, "He is ... oh, is he or she?"

"A he."

"WOW," she repeated, "He is so big! He is Big Baby! Huge."

"I hope you fall down a manhole," I said.

Ha! Ha! Just kidding. Actually, I said "Ya, he's getting pretty big."

And she said, "Seven months! Such a big baby!"

And I said, "Ha! Okay!"

And she said, "Wow!"

And then I smiled and left.

And THEN I said, very quietly, "Your mom is such a Big Baby. I hope you fall down a manhole."

Uncomfortably Close to Waddling:

I've been telling Chris that whenever I run into people who haven't seen me in awhile, they all assume I'm going to have this baby any day, due to the fact that I am SO INCREDIBLY HUGE.

SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE! E-NOR-MOUS. It's not a pretty sight.

So, it was nice when last night at a family dinner for Christofer's birthday Shannon turned to me and said, "I think you're a really pretty pregnant lady."

So kind. So reassuring. For maybe two hours I didn't feel like some strange breed of over-fed, land-walking whale.

But that nice feeling vanished later in the evening when I overheard my very forgetful grandma and my husband have the following conversation:

G-ma (looking at me): Do we need to take Elizabeth to the hospital? Is that baby going to come?

Chris:No, grandma. Not for another two months.

G-ma: Oh, that's right. That's right. (pause) Do you think she could be carrying twins?

A Really Long Blog Wherein I Make Fun of My Two Best Friends, And Reconsider How Much Time My Husband Spends With My Family:

The other day Chris and I were in the car on our way to get gas at Sam's Club when my mom called. She and I had plans to go look at baby stuff later that afternoon, but she was calling to tell me my niece and nephew were up at her house and our plans must be slightly modified because this might be her only chance to take them to get Salt Water Sandals. And she HAD to take them to get Salt Water Sandals

And I curiously asked, "Oh, really? Why?"

And she logically replied, "Because little kids need Salt Water Sandals."

"Huh," I said. "In case they suddenly find themselves by the side of all those oceans around here?"

And she exasperatedly replied, "No. Because all of Madison's sandals have pink flowers on them and things, and I don't think their mom will buy them Salt Water Sandals if I don't."

And I said, "Well, maybe that's because Shannon likes sandals with pink flowers on them."

And she said, "And that's fine. But kids need Salt Water sandals. You guys all wore Salt Water sandals every Sunday."

And I said," ...Okay. But why?"

And she said, " Because they're great. And they will match the outfits I bought for them two weeks ago. And little kids NEED Salt Water Sandals."

"Maybe you should let Shannon buy them sandals she likes," I said.

"Trust me. LITTLE KIDS NEED SALT WATER SANDALS. I cannot say it any more plainly," she said.

And because I realized I would never get any other response, but really because I certainly didn't want to be the person who stopped the earth from spinning, caused the oceans to dry up, and ended the world as we know it, I decided to support her in her quest to see her grandchildren properly shod.

But I couldn't help laughing at how ridiculous the whole conversation was after I hung up - I mean, The children MUST HAVE Salt Water Sandals, where did she get this? - so I related the whole conversation to Chris while he filled the tank, with much giggling and conviviality.

But he just kind of sat there with this pensive look on his face.

So I was like, "See, it's funny because she has decided the kids MUST HAVE Salt Water Sandals, and if they don't have them it could mean the end of the world."

And he kind of nodded and continued to stare into space.

So I was like, "See, what's funny about that is how my mom sometimes just decides that things must be a certain way, and no matter how minute it is, it must be that way, or all is not right with her universe."

And he nodded again.

So I was like, "Funny. haha. get it?"

And he looks at me and goes, "You know, you're like that sometimes."

And I said," Wha? ... when?!"

And he said, "I'm sick. I can't remember. But you're turning into your mother."

My good humour fled.

Because even though being told I'm turning into my mother should generally be taken as a high compliment - Okay, sure, she's strangely obsessed with salt water sandals, but she's also the kindest, most forgiving, patient person I've ever met in my entire life - and EVEN THOUGH in many ways I would give anything to be more like my mother, THIS DID NOT SEEM LIKE A COMPLIMENT. Probably it's an automatic kickback to childhood when you swore you would never make your kids go to bed at 8:30, and you would always buy them Frankenberry and Count Chocula cereal, and they could leave the table whenever they wanted whether or not they had eaten their vegetables*, or whatever; in any case, hearing the words, 'You're turning into you're mother,' can't help but sound like a betrayal of self. No matter how logically you tell yourself it's a compliment.

Also, he said it right after I'd been laughing at my mom's eccentricities.

So there I was, in the car with my husband, feeling old and crazy and insecure, racking my brain for examples of when I decided the children MUST HAVE salt water sandals, when I remembered something wonderful:

My husband will not share apples with me because he says, and this is a direct quote, I "eat them wrong."

That's right, folks. My husband has a specific order in which he likes to eat apples, and he will not give me a bite of his apple unless I agree to follow his exact directions, or else the world, the galaxy, the universe, as we know it, will END.

Remembering this completely restored my good humour, because it made it possible for me to reply, with some authority,

"Whatever,dude. You're turning into my mother."


*I was going to write a tangental story about how one time I wasn't allowed to leave the table, but this blog is too long. Maybe next time.