Ribs and a baby

Someone told me that keeping a blog is a lot like keeping a journal and since we're told we should keep a journal, I will make this post more a journal entry and less a narrative on the idiots around me. Just kidding. Ent is not an idiot.

Dear Journal,

The baby has taken to a new game of escape-o-baby. He does this by trying to crawl out my throat through my ribs (this tends to end when I shove my fist down on his little body, trying to force him out of there), or trying to push his way out through the right side (he favors the right side; I don't know what this means or if it is at all significant in any way... probably not, but you must document these kinds of things when you're writing in a journal. It's journal 101). That also ends with me trying to push him back to where he belongs -the center of my stomach -where I shouldn't feel every little arm or foot of his entire body. He really is trying to make a break for it, to which I remind him that should he come out now, he'll be sleeping in a drawer with absolutely nothing to wear (this might work with a girl baby, but since boys care very little or not at all about what they wear, he seems more determined than deterred). I'm not ready for him to come because I still haven't caught that new mom fever where I'm obsessed with bedding and blankets and breast pumps, so until then, he is to remain in his stomach prison where I will continue to watch him from the outside trying to get to the outside. I watch my stomach bulge and poke and I scold him for his disobedience, but applaud him for his sheer will. He really has almost escaped like twice. Josh gets mad at me for poking him back down, accusing me of hurting him. We're pretty sure he's going to come out lumpy from all the poking. We still love him.

Other things you should know but probably don't care about, journal, is that I had a mind-blowing breakthrough of self-discovery. Josh and I were at Target registering (worst experience of my life) for the convict baby (he seriously just kicked me hard when I typed that. I think he already resents me... he shouldn't resent me until he's at least 16 years old), when this self-discovery happened.

The kiosk machine thing wasn't working and the girl at the front was trying to figure it out. When I say she was trying to figure it out, she was doing things like looking at it from 10 yards away and explaining to us that sometimes the kiosk was "just so dang persnickety." I honestly sat there starring at her, trying to look as menacing as possible (a 300 lb pregnant chic can manage that look pretty well), so she would stop saying 'persnickety' and start doing something about the kiosk failing. Josh was all roses as he smiled and joked with her, telling her we were in no rush. It was sickening, and it only made me more determined to make every employee at Target sorry they ever decided to don a red shirt and become an employee at Target. Whether or not we were in a rush, I was trying not to rush and punch her in the face for saying 'persnickety' like 12 times. That's when it came to me. We're one of those couples. I'm that biotchy woman and Josh is that overly nice guy. The girl always looks like she ate something fowl and the guy just seems overjoyed that nothing ever seems to work. You always wonder if she takes off her human mask when they're at home and transforms back into the demon she really is. Meanwhile you could tell the guy that his car just rolled over by a monster truck and his home was just seen burning to ashes, and he'd say something like, "Ho hum! Isn't that something!"

This realization has been very liberating and I'm glad I finally recognize what I really am. I'm a demon and Josh is a ho hummer. Very liberating indeed, since it explains everything. Everything.

So that's about it, journal. The baby is currently using my rib cage as a stepping stool and I need to take care of that pronto. It's amazing that he never gives up.

love
Courtney