Fat and Flatulent
... Well, sort of.
First of all, I was sitting on the pavement. My big heavy pregnant self + hard concrete = discomfort in a major way. My butt may be
And another thing making me uncomfortable? Gas. (I like to blame it on the baby.) So when Colin moved a little further down the driveway to find a blank spot, I thought I'd take advantage of his distance to quietly let one slip. But no. It wasn't as quiet as I had anticipated ... and, consequently, neither was my son; he cracked up.
"Mommy, you farted!" he shrieked through his laughter, to the neighbors, the people walking their dog, the kids playing in the street, and the dude riding his bike rightinfrontofmyhouse. And oh yeah, anybody with their windows open, which on a day like today was everybody. WHY do four-year-old voices have, like, a ten-mile radius? Seriously?
Then Colin drew a family portrait, even including as-yet-unborn Coby. Awwww, how sweet. "Can you tell me what everyone is doing in this picture?" I asked, all preschool-teacher-like, so he started describing.
"Daddy's balancing with his arms out, like this," he said, demonstrating. "And Cameron's putting his hand on his face ..."
"And what's Mommy doing?" I asked brightly.
He looked at me as though I should already know. "Eating," he said ... like, duh, what are you always doing?
Nice. "And what am I eating?"
"Chocolate, like you always eat! ... Look at that chocolate around your lips."
Sure enough, there was a faint pastel smear around the mouth of the "Mommy" stick figure (whose legs, coincidentally, were sprouting from that same mouth).
I have to admit, his perception of me was a little disturbing. When
a therapist somebody years down the road asks my son what his mother was like during his childhood, he'll probably answer that I was fat and ate only chocolate and farted all the time.