Get your feet wet

We’re calling her Mirena

A few weeks ago, I went to bed a normal human and woke up an anatomical freak. Because there I was, lying flat on my back, and one side of my stomach was literally an inch higher than the other.

Junior scientist that I am, I immediately began gathering observable and empirical data on the anomaly: I poked it. It was roundish! And kinda firm. Also, a little hurt-y. So I promptly called in my research partner, and Michael wasted no time in feeling me up examining the aberration and offering his measured diagnosis.

“I know what that is, and that’s a BABY HEAD!”

“Dude, it’s not a baby.”


“No! Well, not unless there was more to that dream I had about the spaceship and the alien who looked like John Edwards, and I was all, ‘Oooh, Johnny, lemme show ya mah STIMULUS PACKAGE…’ ”

“So it isn’t kicking??!”

“Defs not kicking. Maybe that means it’s Nola’s unborn twin — you know, like a calcified fetus.”

“It’s the boy you wanted! It’s little Cal!!”

“Pffft, you only shoot girls. It’s totally ‘Callie’…”

And right about there I’d started a mental pros/cons list about raising a family on a midway, given my unlimited star potential on the freak-show circuit (con: Tilt-a-Whirl vomit; pro: fried dough!), but on the slim chance the sideshow poohbahs required hard evidence, I also booked an ultrasound appointment.

Ultrasound tech: “Wow, your uterus is HUGE!”
Me: “See, I AM a freak!”
Tech: “It’s just that fibroid. It’s sorta… giant. I mean, it basically doubles the size of your uterus.”
Me: “THAT’S why I can’t get flat abs! Well, that and the back-up liver.”
Tech: “I bet if you get the fibroid removed, you’d totally have a flat belly…”

And I’m all, “GET THE KNIFE,” because while pain is transitory, a vain bitch is forever.

Also, I got this pic of Mike’s pwecious widdle widdums:

You’re welcome, babe.


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