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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

Posted on February 23, 2008

The girls and I stayed home yesterday, the three of us were a sniffling, watery-eyed, please-hold-me mess. I could write about some of the rosey times– the fireside cuddles, the eskimo kisses and sweet orange-juicy toddler breath, or I could let down my guard. I could tell you, in hushed tones, how very hard it was. I could reveal that I wanted to curl up and sleep, have Sean stroking my brow and that I didn’t want to help anyone go to the bathroom. I might even be able to admit that when Briar woke up from her nap after 20 minutes I wanted to weep and rage, instead I brought her in bed with me and pretended to listen as she read to…

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Mightier Body

Posted on February 22, 2008

My Dear Body they asked us to write, mightier body is what came to mind. I’d write a letter, but my body and I have a long history of skipping stuff like that and going right from thought to body. We’ve been through a lot, this body and me. We spent a terrifying afternoon together when we were about 8. We’d been at the park playing, carrying out trademark moves of daredevilry on the monkey bars. A fateful misplant of one foot led body and me to discover a startlingly bright and robust trickle of blood between our legs. I was certain that my body had failed me- that my period had arrived. We fled home to sit together on the floor of the…

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Jell-O Shot Anyone?*

Posted on February 21, 2008

So awful, laughing my congested ass off at the idea of someone trying to do a Jell-O shot of this belly. Or maybe it’s the fact that not only did I not have an unopened box of Jell-O for this impromptu photo shoot, I didn’t have anything but Butterscotch pudding, which, while ‘Calci-yum!’ as the box promises, is not the best selection for a shot done off a belly, taut or, ahem, otherwise. The out-takes are pretty hysterical too. Again, this may all be because I am home sick, bored, punchy and alone. *This post is dedicated to the decidedly not-fat Mrs. Chicken who is having one of the inevitable “Do-I-look-like-the-fat-chick-at-the-bar-with-the-too-tight-clothing-or-do-people-understand-that-I-am-pregnant?” periods of pregnancy.

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