It’s been an emotional week/series of long days/life here at justeastofwest recently. Combine sleep deprivation with children that cry for no reason even though you’ve FED them and CHANGED them and they JUST burped, and you’ve got a recipe for everything becoming a Very Big Deal.
Then we had Mexican food. What’s wrong with Mexican food? Nothing. So what’s my deal? I’ll tell you. There we were, happily sitting down with Joanna and Tyler, munching chips and guacamole and listening to Caden tear apart watermelon and It Happened. Aaron flounced down (in a very manly way) from the shower, smelling like Old Spice, and sat down to join us. Joanna furrowed her brow, looked at him, and went back to eating, apparently dismissing whatever had puzzled her.
I sat back when the meal was almost done (and can I put away some soft shelled tacos), and looked at Aaron. Then the horror dawned, like ice water down my back, the humiliation dripping down the top of my scalp like broken egg.
He was wearing my tshirt. WORSE: It’s a shirt that’s too small for me, and it fit him so well he didn’t notice it was MINE, not his. Even WORSE? That shirt is too small for me right now.
My 6’2″ husband was comfortably wearing one of my pre-pregnancy “comfie” shirts, that I can’t get into, and he hadn’t even noticed. What did I do in response?
I burst into tears and ran upstairs like a 13 year old girl with her first PMS. I cried in the bathroom til my face got all blotchy.
I have to lose this baby weight, and I have to lose it now.
I hope to blog more later, but I hear Oldest Child loudly demanding a clean diaper and breakfast.