Time to Cut Out Donuts
As I mentally began this blog entry with “While we were walking back from the Mexican restaurant, Henry said to me…” it occurred to me, that might help prevent further entries like this one, too.
“I think we’re going to have another baaa-beeee!” Henry said in a sing-songy little voice tonight on the way back to the van after we’d had dinner at the local Mexican restaurant.
“Why is that?” I asked, hoping it was because he’d dreamed it or something, not because I could feel my stomach hanging out where Sarah had pushed my pants down and pulled my shirt up simultaneously as she struggled in my arms.
He cut his eyes downward.
Downward eyes. Smirking, as if he’d figured out a big secret we’d been keeping from him.
Downward eyes. Right at my gut.
“No. That’s just…fat.”
“Oh. Well. I still think we’re going to have another one!”
In that case, you better convince your dad to convert to that oddball off-shoot of the Mormon church that’s featured on “Sister Wives” and have him take a non-official second wife because I think my body has reached critical mass in terms of taking care of others and adding responsibilities. Eww, no. No. I’ll just reread “Managers of Their Homes” and enjoy the three we have.
Actually, I’d take another one. If I could get ONE WEEK of good, solid sleep at Couples resort (except completely by myself – sorry Dave) I think I could manage to become refreshed enough to handle one more. That’s all it would take. Just one Jamaican vacation alone, for a week, at a couple’s resort, except alone (again, sorry Dave, someone’s got to watch the kids).
I should set up a Pay Pal account, so my readers could donate to my
“Send Donna to Negril, Jamaica for One Week’s Sleep at Couple’s Resort,
Except Alone (Sorry, Dave)”