It's been a quiet week hereabouts, which is just the way I like it. Sam took Paolo to get measured for a tux for an upcoming wedding, which is insignificant except for the fact that, while I wasn't looking, Paolo shot up to 41 inches tall. Huh. It does grow.
So, yeah, Paolo has been requested by his future aunt to be a ringbearer in her wedding. It's no secret that neither his father nor I are thrilled by the idea. You see, we harbor no illusions about our offspring. When the idea was first proposed to Sam by the bride-to-be, he replied, "He's going to ruin your wedding." My response was far more diplomatic, "You'd better have a backup plan." The chances of our kid walking down the aisle are about as good as the sun not coming up tomorrow. Sure, it could happen, but every scrap of historical data tends to indicate otherwise.
Which MEANS I'm going to have to walk with (drag) him to deliver the rings. Which MEANS I need to be looking good. Which MEANS I have to find a maternity dress that doesn't suck. Good freaking luck to me. Oh I could easily rant about the horrors of maternity clothes, the tents, the bows, the belly pouch, gahhh!! True, the clothes are improving, and it is much less painful for women WHO ARE NOT A SIZE 2 to purchase them. However, what does one do when a Small is too big, when the sizes start at 8? One moans about it on one's blog is what.
Apologies. No one wants to hear about pregnancy except other pregnant women...excluding me. Even I don't want to hear about it. People ask me how I'm feeling (instead of how I'm doing) and it still takes me a few seconds to figure out why they're asking. I guess I don't get the fascination. You swell up and then you have a baby. It's just gestation. Go ahead, say it. You won't be the first. Pregnancy is wasted on me.