Fat.

My boys have always been the type to say things like, "You look beautiful, Mommy," or, "I like your pretty dress, Mommy," but lately I've been hearing a bit of a different tune.

Last week Asher came up to me, sat on my lap, pointed at my tummy and said, "Is that another baby, Mom?"

No, son. It's not another baby. Just what's left over from the last one - which apparently doesn't plan on going anywhere. I tried real hard and managed not to cry.

I put on a brave face and said, "No. That's just my tummy."

He looked extremely confused and said, "Oh."


Yesterday, I woke up, got ready, tried on about 6 different things - desperately trying to find something I could squeeze into - and went to my doctor appointment. The nurse told me in her most monotone voice, "Get on the scale." I tried not to look, I really did, but it was there staring at me, taunting me. I was not happy with the number - which, by the way, is dangerously close to the same number I had 6 months ago.

I cringed. Thinking we were done, I went to sit back down. "Let's get your girth," she said, holding up a tape measure. Girth?!? No. I should have just said no. Why do I always realize AFTER an event has happened that I could have just said no? I definitely did not look this time. There's nothing quite so awkward as someone "getting your girth".

So I went home, thinking all the while about my girth and that hideous number on the scale, and was almost recovered when Joshua came in looking for his shoes. "I wish I was as big as Mom," he said. I thought, "Yeah, don't wish too hard." He proceeded to walk through the living room with his arms stretched out in front of him in a bulbous shape, his legs waddling like oompaloompas. Steve said, "Josh, what are you doing?"

"Being fat," he said.

Like Mom.

After I recovered from the shock, and climbed back out of my bed, I put on a pair of pajamas and ordered a pizza. And you know what? It made me feel better.