Put On A Party Hat & Let’s Celebrate

Happy Birthday FringeBoy!

Here are eleven things I love about you:  (I stole this idea from Nina@Portugal Bound)

– your sense of humor

– you are honest enough to land yourself in a load of hot water sometimes

– you are a loving little boy with a wide open heart.

– you give me a great big hug when you wake up in the morning

– you’re smarter than a fifth grader, and maybe your fifth grade teacher

– you love to read

– you write funny stories and cartoons, leaving them all over the house for me to find

– you don’t yet realize maybe you should hide some of those stories

– your heart is tender

– you’re old enough to shovel snow and take out the garbage

– you are my gift from God.

French Fried Baby

I shoveled curly seasoned fries into my mouth at speeds only seen on the autobahn, while my purple escort burped carbonated Sprite at each stoplight.  Approximately every 2.3 seconds I rolled down the window for a burst of fresh air.  It didn’t matter that the harsh winds of Maine’s frigid winter would rush into my lungs and push discarded Dunkin Donut wrappers from under the front seat.  The morning commute was long and my breakfast stop a full forty minutes from my front stoop, but afternoons brought my growling appetite almost immediate gratification.  Some call it chance, others good planning; I call it nothing less than miraculous.  Arby’s sat at the mouth of the highway.

Pure ignorance nurtured my pregnancy and fast-food nourished my quickly growing baby.  Today I would be considered a failure among the perky, slightly bloated with baby, Yoga moms.  I neither read the appropriate amount of baby books and magazines, nor did I reunite with my core, fostering balance and peace.  I was all sway, my back arching in directions sure to cause osteoporosis or at least ache.  Standing upright without sending shock waves through my office was pure success.

My sole purpose in pregnancy was to avoid what some call morning sickness, an illness that strikes with no regard to the clock.  For me, keeping my tummy full kept the waves of nausea at bay, so I ate my way through two hundred eight-days (give or take a few hours).  No grown man’s lunch tote was sacred territory when hunger struck.  Although I kept my top desk drawer chock full of snacks, I often out-ate my shopping list.

I reflect on my appetite, not with pride, but with awe.  It seems humanly impossible for an otherwise average woman to wake up one morning and find she’s eaten the equivalent of the corner market, but I did much worse.  I attempted to hide wrappers and eat behind my husband’s back; however, the scale bragged.  It also lied.  I am convinced, and there is no changing the mind of a hormonally distraught woman.

I no longer knew the body I hauled.  I felt like a woman trapped inside of a baby instead of the other way around.

I’ve never felt as physically mortified as I did the day my doorbell rang just a few weeks postpartum.  My newborn lay snuggled in his bassinet when I went to greet my husband’s friend and coworker.  I hadn’t had the opportunity to know him pre-pregnancy, but never considered it to be unfortunate until the moment I looked into the eyes of pure confusion.

“I-I’m sorry.  I must’ve stopped at the wrong house.  I thought a friend of mine lived here.”  He stammered in a fog.

Thinking he must be having a lapse in brain function, but not wanting to cause offense, I happily welcomed him into my home.

“Barry, John should be home any minute, come in.”  I said.

He blinked no less than a thousand times in thirty seconds.  I saw beads of perspiration burst from his taut brow and feared he may have a stroke on the threshold of my home.  Reaching for his arm to pull him into the house and onto a seat, I asked if he was feeling ok.

Hesitantly he looked me over with a mixture of intense wonder and slight disbelief.

“Tr-i-c-ia?”  He asked.

My face must have indicated my response, because before my voice could escape my mouth, he continued.

“I didn’t recognize you.  You had your baby.  You don’t even look like the same person now!”

With the clarity absolute knowledge brings, I regretted every mid-pregnancy bagel I had consumed.  Eventually I shed the weight, but kept the baby.



8 thoughts on “Put On A Party Hat & Let’s Celebrate

  1. robinaltman

    Awww… He’s a sweetie! Happy Birthday FringeBoy!

    Don’t feel bad. At my oldest son’s briss, I was upstairs resting for a little (it was soon after a c section, and preecclampsia and I felt like doody) when 2 of my mother-in-law’s friends burst into the bedroom. “Isn’t this a great party?” asked one. Then he looked at me. “Don’t worry. You’ll have a baby one day soon!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was the mom, and I just had the darn baby!

  2. Mom

    *your tenderness
    *your willingness to crawl into bed with grandma and talk to her early in early morning hours
    *your bear hugs!!

  3. Tori Nelson

    Happy Birthday FringeBoy! I am actually jealous of your pregancy appetite. I was all excited to consume icecream cone after popcorn after large pizza (I guess I thought this was the time to live and eat it up!). I spent the whole time eating plain scrambled eggs and fruit…blah.. the only thing I could stomach! Next time around, I am going to eat AT LEAST a hamburger 🙂


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