My husband says that all I do is complain, so just to prove him wrong, I think I’ll start this post by saying that I’m having a wonderful day. The first thing this day has to recommend itself is that it is Friday, and although it is certainly not the end of my work week, it is the end of David’s, and that means he will be home for the next two days and the children will spend some of their time and energy torturing him, making life better for me.
Secondly, it is resplendent outside. So I won’t be forced to search for mittens for a half hour, fight the baby to put them on for another five minutes, and then pick them up off the pavement repeatedly. Fantastic
.
Oh, and thanks to Dine In Brooklyn, I was able to enjoy a scrumptious 3-course meal with two mommy friends, at Rosewater last night for just $23. A large portion of the mealtime conversation was devoted to our baby bellies. The ones we are left with after the pregnancy, not during. My friend opened up the can of worms by saying that when she was getting changed for a yoga class, she happened to catch a glimpse of her body in the full-length mirror and was not pleased by what she saw.
Now, I didn’t want to get into a fatso competition but, I pointed out to her, there is no WAY her baby belly could be worse than mine, if only because she noticed it in a yoga studio., She’s making an effort to better herself and you generally get rewarded for that shit. I, however, will never be rewarded because I hate exercise and never do it. Let me amend that statement. I happen to think I do a lot of exercise. I climb up three flights of stairs to my apartment carrying my two year-old and dragging my four year-old multiple times a day, and when I get to the top, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m about to enter cardiac arrest. I am on my feet nearly all day, running, hoisting, squatting, lunging, and doing other manner of things that people do in step-aerobics class. So I’m entitled to some reward, too, aren’t I? I mean, it’s not like I’m lounging on my chaise eating bon bons.
But nooooooo, this kind of exertion does not count when it comes to tackling the dreaded baby belly. Only serious, formal abdominal work will make a difference, I know. I have tried to make that kind of thing a part of my daily routine. Last week I tried. On Monday. I even had Primo help design me a sticker chart.
“Just think of it as helping the kid learn to count,” said David, “You have no problem committing to the projects that improve them. Have Primo sit on your feet and count to 50 while you do the sit-ups.”
As it turns out, Primo had no problem counting to the number of sit-ups I was able to do. Seconda could probably count to that number. It was disheartening, to say the least.
If I live long enough I will see the day when some very smart scientists invent a way to get rid of my baby belly without me having to experience this kind of indignity. I’m waiting for that day. And while I wait, I am wearing empire-waisted clothing.
So, as you see, my husband is wrong about me. I’m really quite a happy-go-lucky kind of gal.
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