Phil makes a big discovery. And lives to regret it.
It’s not everyday that your male co-worker sees your underpants and touches your husband’s. Unless you’re pregnant. And you’re me. In which case it happens to you weekly.
Take, for example, this incident that went down last week between me, Phil, and Sharon during one of Bill’s weather hits…
Me: (repeatedly pulling the waistband of my pants away from my belly and letting it snap back) Look guys… even my maternity pants are tight now.
Phil: (awkwardly looking away at his shoes)
Me: (Oblivious. Continuing to pull-n-snap away…)
Sharon:Page, we can see your tank-top tucked into your underpants everytime you do that.
Me: (Cheeks on fire… nearly collapsing into a fit of school-girl giggles just as Bill wraps and tosses to me)
Fabulous. Not embarassing at all. And who tucks their tank-tops into their underpants anyway?! I do. But how else are you supposed to keep them from creeping up over your preggo belly?! And while we’re at it, how funny is the word, “underpants?” So much better than the alternatives. But I digress…
And then there was this unfortunate (for him) interaction just yesterday…
Phil:So Page… what’s a “Braxton Hicks” contraction?
Me:It’s like a practice contraction. Everything tightens, but just without the pain of a real one. Ooooh, I’m having one now. Poke my stomach and feel how hard it is!
Phil: (totally doesn’t want to touch my belly, but does anyway because I am basically forcing his hand… then he feels a strange waistband… a look of astonishment spreads across his face… he starts to actually process what he’s feeling other than just my belly) Page, is that the waistband of your UNDERWEAR?! (Phil prefers the lamer word-choice. He’s not as funny as I am.) Why are they so high up?!
Me:Well they’re not my underpants… they’re Jake’s. Well really they’re his man spanx. They help with the upper thigh chub-rub.
Phil: (trying to resist asking for an explanation, but he just can’t…)
Yeah. So the (not so) secret is out. And you’re welcome for the tip. Because if you’re wearing dresses while preggo during the summer months then you will want to rock a pair of men’s size XL compression shorts under your dresses too.
Believe me, your thighs will thank you for it. And so will your co-workers.
So… here we are again. 37 weeks and counting. And counting. And counting…
And this time we’re re-launching “The Preggo Page” via WNCN Today in the hopes that it will trigger labor. Ok, so my bosses are hoping it will trigger ratings. The labor hopes? They’re all mine. And Jake’s. And probably Ford’s and Cal’s. Although they would likely change their tunes if they had anything close to a clue about how much their worlds are about to be rocked when this new kid makes his or her big appearance.
Getting this close to labor again made me think back to my first two pregnancies and what we were up to with them. With Cal it was pretty mild right about now. But this point at my pregnancy with Ford led to one of my all-time favorite memories at the OBGYN’s office with Jake. Not that it’s particularly hard to win that contest (“Oh but remember the time you peed in a cup and then they pricked your finger?! Good times!”), but this visit was one for the record books. I wrote about it in a post titled, “The Joy of Stirrups.” Read on and be thankful you’re not the one giving me an OB examination.
But it’s memories like those and all the other ones both captured here and floating around somewhere in our parentally-clouded memory banks that actually made us decide to do this again. And then it’s pictures like these from last week’s “Bring Your Child to Work Day” at WNCN that make us now wonder what the hell we were thinking.
“You Should Have Left Your Hooligans at Home Day” was more like it
Sushi-loving preggos: Kim Hunter and her new restaurant Kimbap are your new best friends. Kim woke up dark and early this morning to teach me how to make her famed Kimchi Rolls. Recipe and how-to lesson here. Buen provecho!
I feel like our boys got older this weekend. I mean, I know they literally got 48 hours older, but there were randomly several major milestones over the past couple of days that got me all sappy thinking about the little dudes becoming not so little. Let’s take a look back, shall we:
1. Cal gets his first haircut. Good lord was this horrible. Page had to hold him, and I think she ended up in a sweatier mess than he did. The woman at Great Clips – God bless her – was very patient, but after doing a relatively good job blowing through the majority of his head, she turned OCD and was convinced that the necessary cherry on top was “snipping that little rat tail of his.” Cal doesn’t have a rat tail, folks. By the end of the #12minutesofhell (as it would be hash-tagged on Twitter), Cal was at his wits end. He was pissed at getting a haircut and even more pissed at the mere mention of a rat tail. When the barberette (woman barber?) was done and the faux tail was snipped, Cal immediately simmered. What a disaster. His dome looks good though. He looks like a little boy now. Crazy.
Seriously, was it really that terrible? (YES.)
2. We take our first walk through the mall together (not ever, just in a while). Can someone tell me when black, calf-high socks and Sperry Topsiders TOGETHER became cool? I seriously felt like I was 80 on Saturday. Every single person in the mall was on their phone, and I think I saw about 47 people (yes, one solo) having sex in H&M. What in the hell were Page and I thinking having kids?! It’s not like I don’t go out in public on a daily basis – hell, I’m around teenage kids all the time with our baseball tournaments, but seriously, you would have thought that the memo of snap-back hats, neon everything and pants that would cut the circulation off even a horse jockey would have crossed my path at some point (see video below – apparently, I’m a jerk). It took me about 11 seconds before I put the weather shield over the stroller. No way are my boys gonna catch crabs at Crabtree Valley Mall.
3. Ford drinks from a normal person cup for the first time. This happened like an hour ago, and while it may sound silly, this could quite possibly have been the highlight of the weekend. To this point all of Ford’s drinking devices have needed a steel-latched lid, as he tends to fire his cups across the house as if they just set fire to his little hands. And every time he does this, Page and I turn into CSI detectives trying to follow a blood splatter. “Do you see where the milk leads, Detective Fehling?” “Yes, Detective Fehling, he threw the effing milk clear across the room. It is currently resting – and dripping – on what looks like a laptop.” “Aw hell.”
4. Cal advances to a forward-facing car seat. Now, I know we run the risk of being publicly scolded for not having him rear-facing until he’s 17 years old (who writes these rules anyway?? What? Doctors? Crap.), but everything we’ve read, heard, seen, feel like doing, tells us that it’s time. I remember switching Ford out…and…man, it’s crazy seeing that face staring at you in the rear-view for the first time…especially when a 1-year-old flips you the bird for what I can only assume is the disgust that it took us this long to put a tank-sized kid into a decently-sized seat. To be fair, it has been a little hard to buckle him lately (for the past four months), but I digress. So now we have double-barrel toddlers in our second row captains chairs. If it didn’t feel like we were chauffers before, it definitely does now. Monkey Joe’s it is, kind sirs.
Guys, seriously, this is so not worth a photoshoot.
5. And finally — one more for Cal — little man gets a passport. Technically we’re filing everything tomorrow, but he had his picture taken today. I posted it to Facebook earlier, but come on, how can I not flaunt this beauty again. Could he be any more pissed? They ask you to “not make a facial expression” for the photo, but come on, they HAVE to waive that for kids, let alone ones Cal’s age, right? God I hope so. If we end up on YouTube as Cal is getting molested by the TSA while Page and I are firing off obscenities in the background because of this picture, well…well, that would be awesome.
Do NOT let this child on your plane.
So yeah, big weekend. Not to sound too corny, but with all of those milestones, plus my future flashing before my eyes at the mall, I definitely was thinking a lot about the next few years, fatherhood, etc…
And then I pissed my pants a little.
And no, that’s not a first.
Jake
p.s. Honorable mention: Ford requesting (demanding) ice cream for the first time. Not that this is a big deal at all, but he called it “ass cream.” “I WANT ASS CREAM!” he yelled over and over before we finally caught our breath and gave him some. We’re horrible parents.
Ford gets an early lesson in why we don’t play with balls in the house… especially when the cameras are rolling.
At least he copped to it early (~ 30 second mark). Just shoved those hands as far into his mouth as possible and fessed right on up. “Uhhhh, clock.” Yeah, thanks Fudgeman. I know what it was. I spent three weeks picking it out to sit in juuust that spot. You owe me a $150 wedding present. Payment period to begin at the age of 13 via lawn-mowing. Let the tally begin…
Yeah, so maybe we got out a little over our skis with this blogging thing. Who knew that with two kids under two we wouldn’t have any time to blog about, um, having two kids under two. Blogging takes more than :27 seconds, which, as any other (insane) 30-something couple with kids knows very well, is about all the time you have to do anything. Seriously, anything at all.
So…we’re taking this baby(ies, literally) to Twitter, where in :27 seconds you have just enough time to hammer out the requisite characters that convey the madness that is consuming you at that moment. Did Ford just throw a sweet potato fry at an 85-year-old woman at lunch today? Did Cal’s upteenth bowel movement of the day just blow out into his white pants? Tweet, tweet.
You can follow us @ThePreggoPage, and if you aren’t on Twitter, no worries, as we’ll be including a Twitter feed here on ThePreggoPage.com.
