Today is my friend, H's birthday. Today she is one day more pregnant, one day more impatient, and one day more anxious for the arrival of her baby girl. She is also one day more sober on her birthday night (happy birthday). I'd like to say I can recall all the angst and frustration she suffers today (happy birthday) so I may console her from the very same side of the tracks, but I've successfully blocked it from my memory.
Instead, I'd like to dedicate this Ode to My Pregnant Friend: Happy Birthday from a more positive perspective.
This is one birthday she will remember devoid of foggy moments, broken glasses or pukey sweaters. This is a birthday where her cleavage draws more attention than her ridiculously long legs (I speak out of jealousy). And probably the last birthday she'll have glorious cleavage that doesn't reach to next Tuesday. This is a birthday when only one child will demand her attention while she shovels her meal before he needs to go home to bed. When she eats with both her hands. Where only one child yells, "Mommy!" five billions times in an evening. An evening when she can crawl into bed knowing her breasts still belong to her, no matter which side of her belly they roll to. A night of sleep that doesn't involve diapers. And finally, this is THE LAST birthday that involves root beer and iced tea.
Happy Birthday, H. There's a bottle of champagne with your name on it when that baby girl makes her appearance! You've earned it, my friend. Cheers.
Instead, I'd like to dedicate this Ode to My Pregnant Friend: Happy Birthday from a more positive perspective.
This is one birthday she will remember devoid of foggy moments, broken glasses or pukey sweaters. This is a birthday where her cleavage draws more attention than her ridiculously long legs (I speak out of jealousy). And probably the last birthday she'll have glorious cleavage that doesn't reach to next Tuesday. This is a birthday when only one child will demand her attention while she shovels her meal before he needs to go home to bed. When she eats with both her hands. Where only one child yells, "Mommy!" five billions times in an evening. An evening when she can crawl into bed knowing her breasts still belong to her, no matter which side of her belly they roll to. A night of sleep that doesn't involve diapers. And finally, this is THE LAST birthday that involves root beer and iced tea.
Happy Birthday, H. There's a bottle of champagne with your name on it when that baby girl makes her appearance! You've earned it, my friend. Cheers.
Comments
"The Buoy, Anyone?"
Love,
H