The Happy Post

This morning I woke up,
looked over at Chup and proclaimed,


Which is a sentiment I haven't felt since falling prey to pregnancy's dark fog of apathetic musings from a emotional wet cave. (Did you catch all that?)

And it made me realize although I am not the sickest of the sickest pregnant women--those who are iv-injected, unable to breathe without vomiting--I do feel pathetically depressed, and that depression makes me more sick than I suppose I really feel. But who cares? Today I woke up and suddenly this planet was shining again, and I didn't wonder how I was going to make it through to nap time and from nap time to bedtime. Quick, somebody send me flowers!

I would give myself a hearty 75% with a lingering slight nausea sensation in the back of my throat, but not anything desperate. I say that in case someone reads this and thinks I am back to normal, like I could probably start answering my phone again. Just kidding sorta. I never did answer my phone.

After church Chup told me a story about taking The Chief to nursery and how one boy in the class kept calling my husband, "hey big guy" with a voice resembling sucked helium. The funny part of this story is though everyone calls him "big guy" (all six feet, five inches of him) no one has yet called him "hey big guy."

I call him "hotbottoms", just for the record.

After a gracious nap, I met up with Chup and The Chief in our front room. For some inexplicable reason, my husband crawled underneath our coffee table and stayed there for the better part of an hour. We tried to coax him free with suckers and caramels (who knew he doesn't like caramels?) but he insisted he was comfy and cozy under there (underwear?). Maybe it was like being back in embryo? The safe sensation of limited space? I don't know (can't remember) but if my fetus is as content as Hey Big Guy underneath the table today I happy to report all is well at Retro House.

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