So yesterday Ms. Booty arrives at the midwife's for a regular two week visit -- My Beloved Mister's already there, having arrived straight from work.
Totally excited about my new nursing bras which've just arrived, I've donned one and upon seeing him, immediately pull up my top to show Daddy Booty my new super cute leopard print Bravado! plus nursing bra!! (Note to non-nursing and non-pregnant chicks: they make super cozy good brassieres that're bosom friendly for YOU, too! Here's a good source for the ones of you interested: http://store.yahoo.com/breakoutbras/bravado.html -- they're currently having a sale, and thrifty Ms. Booty loveth a good bargain! Another good place is here: http://www.wearsthebaby.com/bravadopage.htm)
So the appointment takes place, all is well. I'm down a pound from two weeks ago as I continue to lose fluid gain (this no sugar whole foods living is tremendously helpful!) and Ziggy's science- fiction-showing my belly, morphing it here and yon. Our midwife thoroughly advocates for "Dr. Red," the pediatrician Mama Booty interviewed last week and feels so good about. We discuss birthing balls and the fact that Ziggy will be delivered by whichever of the midwives is on call when he decides to show up.
And then: My Mister confesses that he believes Ms. Booty has been a big bitch over the weekend, because she's overdone it for the last several days what with the Swedish Public Television deal and the Festival and the brunch and the recipe contest; he attempts to enlist our midwife into agreeing that Ms. Booty's over extension of activities is problematic, and not just because she's a bitch, but because it's not healthy. She's a smart lady, our midwife: she tells him what he needs to hear by chiding me a bit and by telling him, too, how he can help his pregnant bride by not being so crabby his own self and being more helpful so Mama Booty isn't such a bitch, nor is she taking unhealthy actions on any sort of chronic basis. This all goes over quite well with the extroverted Southern Native American / Irish mutt and the introverted Midwestern Scandanavian. Oh, those dynamics.
Then our midwife, she makes us howl with laughter by proclaiming our intentions to make a quick 60 hour or so run down to the Gulf Shores Labor Day Weekend "Retarded!"
She tells us we can do as we like, there's no way she can stop us, but she absolutely doesn't recommend it as it's possible Ziggy could decide to come early and doesn't need to be born on the road and it's too long for a woman of such voluptuous mama-to-be-ness to ride in the car.
"It's retarded," she tells us again, leaving us in stitches and thinking we'll plan another kind of romantic getaway for our last childless road trip-- something closer, something a bit more tethered to not being retarded, which frankly, we kind of are when it comes to certain kinds of decision making.
Post appointment, there's no time for me to return home and then rush back to this side of town for my girlfriend Leslie's birthday party, so My Mister suggests we walk down the block on to the bookstore. I'm game.
A storm is brewing and it's rush hour. Once inside, my man heads upstairs for a copy of Penny Simkins' very fine book, The Birth Partner, as the copy I've borrowed from the Attachment Parenting group in town is due back. I stay downstairs on the look for a birthday card for Leslie.
My Beloved returns, book in hand, ten minutes later. Walks up behind me, clears his throat. I turn to look at him. He does that spinning motion with his index finger pointed downward, for Ms. Booty to turn back around. I do.
He yanks the back of my tiered peasant skirt out of my panties.
Ms. Booty busts out laughing-- I've just done the panty parade and shown my ass down the block and into the bookstore for the last however long, and here I just thought everyone was smiling at me 'cause my bump makes everyone gushy and melty hearted for new life!
The joke's on me! And my booty.
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