“Are you pregnant?”
It’s as if no one notices the happy six month old on my hip. I’ve been asked this question twice now in the last two months. I’m not kidding. Once by my dear cousin with autism (I let that one slide given her level of social tact, even had a good laugh about it) and then again today by a neighbor who heard the rumor from someone else…
And right when I thought I was starting to look good in my jeans. (Okay, my maternity jeans, but still. The point is, I was starting to look good in them.)
The answer is no, I’m not pregnant. And as Andy clarified this evening when I was busy dispelling the rumor, “We know there’s no baby in your tummy Mom, but the house that Jane built in there still kinda is.”
Yes, folks. We’re down to the last ten pounds. The last ten, can-only-come-off-via-blood-sweat-and-tears pounds. And apparently, all ten are located right where a baby could be hiding. (Unless these people are making these snap judgments by looking at my backside. Oh, please don’t let them be looking at my backside!!)
So that’s it. I’m on the bandwagon. I want a definitive “not pregnant this month” set of abs. I know, I know. Thanksgiving is two weeks away, and Christmas and all of its fudge and almond roca (mmmmm, almond roca. No. Stop it. Stop it!) will be right on its heels. How will I do it?
I’m not totally sure yet, but after all the sit-ups I did today, I’m so sore I don’t think I’ll even be able to sit up and take nourishment in the morning. That ought to give me a good head start, right?
Now, where did I store those Spanx?