CJ and C Jane

My favorite character in all of blogdom is the wickedly funny little CJ, son of my dear friend Jamie a la Boise. CJ has a rampant obsession with trash, discusses human body parts with his fellows, and actively proposes dog food where others use Parmesan cheese.

But his latest adventures deal with his desire to wear his daddy's underwear. If you've seen his daddy, as I have, you will wonder, like I do, how CJ manages to support such a large garment without using a bundle of safety pins. 'Cause CJ's daddy is like this big. Bigger than your daddy for sure, maybe even bigger than The Chief's daddy.

This confession of CJ's has only endeared me more to the sparky guy, for I too like to wear my daddy's underwear at night. This ritual started shortly after my belly started to expand. One evening the thought occurred that perhaps daddy's undies would constrict less while tossing and turning. It's true, wearing the over-sized undies is like sleepy on a soft, pillowy-like cloud of fluffy. Almost like dozing bare na-ked.

For the first few months I took comfort in the fact that Chuppy's cuddly cottony undies were always going to be the size of a tent. That I could live through out this gestation feeling breezy in the nighttime hours. Husband agreed, and started to set out his undies on the dresser for me to change into right before I retired. A sweet, serene solution.

Only last night daddy's undies fit me. THEY FIT ME. The bottoms felt snug on my legs. The waist didn't drop to my lower hip area. My belly pressed up against the thin white top. I looked over at Chup to see if he had lost weight. No, indeed the man was still the size of Merlin Olsen, with his LA Rams career physique. The truth is . . . I don't need to spell it out. Okay, I will spell it out:

I am a five-foot-three-inched woman sharing the same size underwear as my six-foot-five-inched husband.

I am at a loss. Is it the three am cereal bars? The dark chocolate truffles? Could it be my rage for sour candy when I watch Chup play Project Gotham 4? Heavens! I am not stupid enough to think that this is all baby. The boy doesn't even weigh a pound yet. Ounces! Friends! Ounces still!

In due time this will probably happen to CJ. One day, when he's grown a foot or two, he'll be asking to borrow his daddy's khakis (no safety pins needed), and when that day comes there will be much back-slapping and man-chuckling.

And I will be happy for them.

Popular Posts