Wax On, Wax Off

Oh, if only I were talking about waxing.

You know, as in, I am smooth as a baby's butt kind of waxing?

Listen, even my butt isn't as smooth as a baby's butt, let's just be honest about that one!

But oh, I long for the days of manicures and waxing. Time to myself. Feeling pampered and luxurious (still a word, honey!).

No, my greatest luxury in life right now is a pair of velour maternity sweatpants.

They are the only pants that don't cut off my circulation and make me feel like a bratwurst stuffed inside a hotdog.

Nice imagery, right?

Anyway, as usual I've run away from the point.

And by run, or course I mean, waddle.

Back to the point.

Wax on, wax off.

I'm convinced that I am housing within my being the next Karate Kid.

This eggplant sized human, who cannot even open his eyes yet, somehow manages to reach out and punch me with a force that was never achieved by his older brother - bless his heart!

And when I say he is punching me, I am not exaggerating.

I know, it's hard to believe. What with my propensity for story telling and all.

But it's true.

Today, as I walked down the hallway at work, his assault sent me staggering into a wall, grasping my stomach and exclaiming, "Ouch!"

And maybe that was a tad bit dramatic.

But only a tad.

I miss my anterior placenta.

I didn't think I'd ever type those words, but there they are.

And it's true. I miss it's protection. This posterior nonsense is just plain silliness.

I love this boy - and I love that he's so active.

But I don't need to see his little fist trying to escape through my skin - like a scene from Alien.

Settle down in there Daniel-son or I will send the Sensei after you!