Let me catch you up on all the news from the 35th week. An ultrasound showed that the little man has plenty of fluid and room in his current accomodations and also is coming out head first. I would be more excited about this fact, except that the three doctors in the room during the ultrasound all caught their breath, commented on the larger size of his noggin, and one actually said, 'You know that has to come out of your vagina, Kourtney.' Yes, I'm aware...a little more every day when I contract away and his XL head smooshes down just that much further into my pelvis and against my bladder, helping me to emit the new eau de preggo. Not a big deal when you smell like pee all the time, you just find yourself hanging out by old people and babies so that way you can pass the odor off as theirs.
Another fun and suuuuuper exciting event from this week was seeing the doctor. I was halfway through the week and had been contracting quite a bit so we decided to have a 'look see' and check my cervix to see what was going on down there. Now, having performed this exam on hundreds of women at various points in their last month of pregnancy, I didn't think much of it. As I now know, I did not have an appropriate fear or hatred of this exam and I now will hold off on putting patients through this joy until absolutely necessary. The innocent little check took like 5 minutes (or 30 seconds) and left me with one foot on the table, the other on the wall, one hand in a deathgrip on the head of the bed and the other bracing the opposing wall from the one my foot was on. During this contortionist trick, I also had a ridiculously strong vagal response, also known as coming within inches of embarassingly passing out without your pants on. My doc, who happens to be a pal, was actually amused by the colors changing on my face from ghostly white, to so-green-I'm-pretty-sure-you're-going-to-ralph-on-me, to bright red and flushed...and then I started to breathe again, or rather hyperventilate on the order of a woman who actually did just push a grapefruit out her kiwi. My giggle happy doc then says, 'you are going to be so fun in labor, I just know it.' To which I responded that she should check out my previous post centered on the idea of 'suck it.' Laugh all you want now, chica, because you're stuck there with me and my crazy behavior and elbows deep in the business end of things, so ha.
At least one good thing was discovered during this harrowing event...the fact, that this party is getting started early. Based on the changes that were already going on down South, we've surmised that he's my captive for only 2-3 more weeks if we keep up the current rate of contracting.
I thought that this news of early arrival would make me joyous and that I'd be out exercising, cleaning, having sex and doing anything possible to continue the contraction party. In fact, the exact opposite happened. I find myself sad that all his little kicks, punches, head butts, squirmy disco moves and general state of unrest are something that will soon be over. One of the best things about being pregnant is carrying around this little 'mouse in my pocket' who I can talk to and dance with and moves all about when he hears my voice or we're rocking out in the tank. Whenever we're out with Will or John and have to make a decision, we automatically have a majority as I pretend he, of course, would vote along party lines with me. I doubt Will will believe me that Ollie does want to go to Target instead of the splash pad when he sees that he actually doesn't speak and his main concern is pooping and drooling. Will is going to be somewhat shocked, I have a feeling, when he realizes that Ollie is not the talkative, little opinionated mofo that I play him out to be. Also, at least for right now, he's hand free. He eats, sleeps, plays and chills out all without me carrying him, having sore nipples, changing a diaper or wondering why he's crying. He's about to become a whole bunch more high maintenance than mama in a couple of weeks.
I don't know if it's me subconciously trying to prolong his descent or if this is just what happens the second the clock hits 35 weeks, but I've become almost inert. I sleep in 30 minute to 2 hour intervals, waking every 1.5-2 hours to pee or change position as one of my legs is asleep or my hips are screaming out in pain, getting a total of 4-6 hours per night on average, prompting me to re-discover the deliciousness that is known as the daytime nap. 9-10 am and 4-5pm are my fave times when I could pretty much sleep through any natural disaster. Looking past the sleep deprivation, my energy level in general pretty much just bites the big one. Swimming one lap in the pool winds me. Going up one flight of stairs is exhausting. Folding laundry, driving to Target, sitting down to pee...all of these things require a superhuman amount of energy that I can't seem to muster. My To-Do list is growing by a page a day and I'm lucky to get 2-3 things done in an afternoon.
I'm also starting to ponder the possibility that I could may be newly pregnant in addition to the almost finished cooking monster in my belly. All of a sudden, I'm RIGHT NOW STARVING for the most unhealthy of delights. My now gigantour-sized melons are hurting all the time. We've covered the exhaustion. It's like the first trimester all over again, including the constant fight between your desire for intimacy with the baby daddy battling it out with the threat of you going all Bobbit on him if he even looks at you the wrong way. Anywho, as I'm nearly falling asleep with the energy output required to keep typing, I'll finish here. Stay tuned for what's sure to be titillating tales from the final weeks countdown to the little man's entrance...or exit depending on how you look at it.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Put your hands up and spread 'em
You dirty, dirty minded children.
As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.
So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.
This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.
The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.
Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?
As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.
So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.
This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.
The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.
Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Hello July
So, I finished work yesterday. Really, it was last Friday and I've been doing 'paperwork' for the last three days which consisted of sleeping late, running errands, lunching with Ann and the occasional stop by the office to sign my name to something. Can I just tell you how much fun it is to not go to work everyday? Don't get me wrong, I love what I do the majority of the time. Yeah, we all get a little whiney and have a bad day and curse the thought of ever deciding to go to medical school, but most days I am happy with my choice and realize how lucky I am to be in the field I'm in. On the other hand, not working is totally awesome. It's just that there are some things that I hadn't realized happen when you stay home with a munchkin that I've learned quite quickly just over these past few days.
First of all, being a housewife or stay at home mom is actually pretty busy when there are kids involved. Will may sleep in til the late hour of 6:45am or he might sleep til 9:00am, prompting you to sneak into his room and make sure he's still breathing. You never know so it's not like you can stay up late watching a movie with the hubby and say, 'oh, I'll just sleep in tomorrow.' Maybe, maybe not. Also, when you're married, there's a new wacky trend to share a bedroom with your significant other. You know, the one who gets up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work in the same room you're sleeping in. You'd never say anything about the lights on and off, windows shades opening letting in the 'glorious' sunlight and doors opening and closing because you know he's 'trying' to be quiet and going to bring home the bacon so that you don't have to. But sometimes you think, 'huh, this sucks that I'm awake at the buttcrack of dawn so maybe if I slept on the pullout this wouldn't happen.' Then you remember how much you love your big comfy bed and snuggling the man at night and how much closer your bed is to the bathroom when compared to the pullout and decide that maybe you can deal...for now.
Along with erratic bedtimes, there's the ever fluctuating mood and energy level that children are famous for. Who knows if he'll be in a pouty mood or a sunshine happy mood or a tired mood because he didn't get enough sleep, but refuses to nap. Or my favorite, the 'I got 12 hours of sleep and now nothing short of a straight jacket can control this kind of crazy' mood. When you spend ALL DAY with a child who's constantly running on full steam, laughing like a crazy person at everything, spazzing out at every store you go to because 'the aisles are just so long!', and screaming 'I love samples' upon entering Sams Club, it's hard not to run the other direction when your spouse gets home so you can have some peace and quiet. Your hubby will then act surprised that you aren't up to going to soccer or BMX or playing outside because he doesn't know how physically and mentally exhausted you are from your daylong adventure...every single day. I honestly don't know how people who teach kids all day long can go home to their kids and still have the energy or brain power to have a fulfilling family life. These people must be superhuman.
When you stay home, you also become the maid. I know, I know. This should not be a shocker. The chores you were normally splitting after work and taking precious minutes away from time you could be spending with your family or eachother, can now be done during the day so you can both chill out at night. That makes sense and all, but it still sucks. Nobody LIKES to clean everyday. Even if its laundry one day, sweep and mop the floors the next, vacuum the floors and couches after that. It still sucks that it's all your job now and you start to think that dealing with drug seekers and sick kids may actually be easier than staying at home.
I also have a new found understanding of why stay at home parents meet their spouses at the door and word vomit instantly upon their arrival. They've been talking to a kid all day. Now the good thing about chilling with your offspring 24/7 is that you really get to know them and they tell you all kinds of things that you probably wouldn't have heard otherwise. The majority of your convo's revolve around tech decks and flick trix or 'remember when we went to Florida...that was fun.' The school yard banter is sweet and all, but sometimes leaves you dreaming of a discussion about why Mrs. X's kidney function is all of a sudden in the crapper. (Will will one day kill me for posting this, but I still giggle everytime I think about it.) One priceless chat went a little like this:
We're having a bath the other day and talking about how tall Will is getting and he's like, 'I'm growing so much my bones hurt, especially when they get all stiff.'
To which I reply, 'yeah, sometimes you can have a little pain when your arms and legs are growing quickly.'
He says (completely straight faced), 'no mama, not my arms and legs. When the bone in my junk gets all stiff, it sticks out straight and won't lay down. I don't like it.'
First off, this is when you realize multiple things: A) you should quit using the work 'junk' to describe the goods and maybe go with a more anatomically appropriate label, B) you're never allowed to laugh when you're kid talks about his 'junk' or he looks at you with the saddest little 'I-thought-we-were-bonding-and-now-you're-mocking-me' look, and C) he's growing into a little man which makes you sad at first and then paranoid at the fact that all these precocious little 7 year old girls keep asking to come over for a 'play date.' I'm not trying to be a grandma before I'm 40...or 50.
Along with joining the housekeepers union, when you don't work outside the home, you also become the chief errand runner...aka everyones bitch. We need groceries, the car needs an oil change, the car needs a new parking sticker, we need to mail this package, the kid needs new socks, etc. All the things that used to get done after work or fit in between clinics or surgeries or on lunch hours or a random day off are now your job while you're sitting at home doing 'nothing' all day. Do you mind? No, because really what else is going to give you an excuse to take a break from cleaning all day, right? Between the chores and cleaning and keeping the boy entertained all day, there's nothing very relaxing about being a stay at home mom. Especially when you're growing a person who plans on coming into the world in 7 weeks or so and, thus, makes sleeping or finding a remotely comfortable daytime position completely impossible.
Enough crying in my cinnamon life about how busy I am. I am staying home for the next few months and I am happy about it. I just have a new respect for stay at home parents because it's not all daytime TV and bonbons. It's a freaking full time job and you should not feel guilty about spending your working spouses hard earned dollars because you're earning your share all day long, too. God (and John) knows there are no guilty shopping feelings here.
First of all, being a housewife or stay at home mom is actually pretty busy when there are kids involved. Will may sleep in til the late hour of 6:45am or he might sleep til 9:00am, prompting you to sneak into his room and make sure he's still breathing. You never know so it's not like you can stay up late watching a movie with the hubby and say, 'oh, I'll just sleep in tomorrow.' Maybe, maybe not. Also, when you're married, there's a new wacky trend to share a bedroom with your significant other. You know, the one who gets up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work in the same room you're sleeping in. You'd never say anything about the lights on and off, windows shades opening letting in the 'glorious' sunlight and doors opening and closing because you know he's 'trying' to be quiet and going to bring home the bacon so that you don't have to. But sometimes you think, 'huh, this sucks that I'm awake at the buttcrack of dawn so maybe if I slept on the pullout this wouldn't happen.' Then you remember how much you love your big comfy bed and snuggling the man at night and how much closer your bed is to the bathroom when compared to the pullout and decide that maybe you can deal...for now.
Along with erratic bedtimes, there's the ever fluctuating mood and energy level that children are famous for. Who knows if he'll be in a pouty mood or a sunshine happy mood or a tired mood because he didn't get enough sleep, but refuses to nap. Or my favorite, the 'I got 12 hours of sleep and now nothing short of a straight jacket can control this kind of crazy' mood. When you spend ALL DAY with a child who's constantly running on full steam, laughing like a crazy person at everything, spazzing out at every store you go to because 'the aisles are just so long!', and screaming 'I love samples' upon entering Sams Club, it's hard not to run the other direction when your spouse gets home so you can have some peace and quiet. Your hubby will then act surprised that you aren't up to going to soccer or BMX or playing outside because he doesn't know how physically and mentally exhausted you are from your daylong adventure...every single day. I honestly don't know how people who teach kids all day long can go home to their kids and still have the energy or brain power to have a fulfilling family life. These people must be superhuman.
When you stay home, you also become the maid. I know, I know. This should not be a shocker. The chores you were normally splitting after work and taking precious minutes away from time you could be spending with your family or eachother, can now be done during the day so you can both chill out at night. That makes sense and all, but it still sucks. Nobody LIKES to clean everyday. Even if its laundry one day, sweep and mop the floors the next, vacuum the floors and couches after that. It still sucks that it's all your job now and you start to think that dealing with drug seekers and sick kids may actually be easier than staying at home.
I also have a new found understanding of why stay at home parents meet their spouses at the door and word vomit instantly upon their arrival. They've been talking to a kid all day. Now the good thing about chilling with your offspring 24/7 is that you really get to know them and they tell you all kinds of things that you probably wouldn't have heard otherwise. The majority of your convo's revolve around tech decks and flick trix or 'remember when we went to Florida...that was fun.' The school yard banter is sweet and all, but sometimes leaves you dreaming of a discussion about why Mrs. X's kidney function is all of a sudden in the crapper. (Will will one day kill me for posting this, but I still giggle everytime I think about it.) One priceless chat went a little like this:
We're having a bath the other day and talking about how tall Will is getting and he's like, 'I'm growing so much my bones hurt, especially when they get all stiff.'
To which I reply, 'yeah, sometimes you can have a little pain when your arms and legs are growing quickly.'
He says (completely straight faced), 'no mama, not my arms and legs. When the bone in my junk gets all stiff, it sticks out straight and won't lay down. I don't like it.'
First off, this is when you realize multiple things: A) you should quit using the work 'junk' to describe the goods and maybe go with a more anatomically appropriate label, B) you're never allowed to laugh when you're kid talks about his 'junk' or he looks at you with the saddest little 'I-thought-we-were-bonding-and-now-you're-mocking-me' look, and C) he's growing into a little man which makes you sad at first and then paranoid at the fact that all these precocious little 7 year old girls keep asking to come over for a 'play date.' I'm not trying to be a grandma before I'm 40...or 50.
Along with joining the housekeepers union, when you don't work outside the home, you also become the chief errand runner...aka everyones bitch. We need groceries, the car needs an oil change, the car needs a new parking sticker, we need to mail this package, the kid needs new socks, etc. All the things that used to get done after work or fit in between clinics or surgeries or on lunch hours or a random day off are now your job while you're sitting at home doing 'nothing' all day. Do you mind? No, because really what else is going to give you an excuse to take a break from cleaning all day, right? Between the chores and cleaning and keeping the boy entertained all day, there's nothing very relaxing about being a stay at home mom. Especially when you're growing a person who plans on coming into the world in 7 weeks or so and, thus, makes sleeping or finding a remotely comfortable daytime position completely impossible.
Enough crying in my cinnamon life about how busy I am. I am staying home for the next few months and I am happy about it. I just have a new respect for stay at home parents because it's not all daytime TV and bonbons. It's a freaking full time job and you should not feel guilty about spending your working spouses hard earned dollars because you're earning your share all day long, too. God (and John) knows there are no guilty shopping feelings here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)