The benefits of living with a happy toddler

It's been a weird couple of days.  I've had some heavy shit on my mind, and I've been busy at work, and I'm sleeping like crap (nothing new there), and the physical aspects of pregnancy are starting to take their toll.

Like, my boobs have gone completely insane and I can't fit into any of my bras any more.  Well, there's one, a sports bra, and its stretchy.  So I can jam the girls in there in a pinch.  But being a sports bra, it tends to give me a uniboob, which is not a look that I go for, fashion-wise.  So the other day, I went to Target to try to find some big girl bras to tide me over until I give birth and lose weight.  

I tried on every single bra for heavy girls, large-breasted girls, what-have-you, in the entire store.  And I am absolutely not making this up when I tell you that there was not a single bra in the entire Glendale Target -- a SuperTarget, mind you, which happens to be the busiest and highest grossing Target in the entire U.S. of A. -- that could contain my breasts.   

And I'm just feeling gross and massive generally.  Jason is so sweet, and he tells me that I look great and that I'm glowing and that I'm not fat, I'm pregnant.  And intellectually, I know this. But then I look in the mirror or at recent pictures taken of myself, and I just feel like I look like a heifer.  My face looks fat, my arms look pudgy, and I feel like it'll be an impossible task to get back to my fighting weight once the Joey is born.  

And again, intellectually, I know it's not true.  I'm pretty disciplined when it comes to sticking with an exercise program.  I know I can do it.  But I was always in pretty good shape and never really worried about how I looked, and now I just feel yucky.  

Some of it may be a function of pregnancy hormones.  I don't have big mood swings, but every once in a while, like when I'm even more tired than normal, I'll just lose my shit and cry for awhile.  Last night I didn't cry, but I just felt mean.  Really mean.  Everything annoyed me.  Jason had done nothing wrong, but I wanted to claw his eyes out.  The dog had done nothing wrong, and I wanted to kick him.*  

And to add insult to injury, I had to watch the Nuggets blow a big lead and lose in the last seconds of the basketball game to the fucking Lakers. I hate the Lakers. I hate Kobe Bryant. Grrrr. 

When I woke up this morning, I was feeling somewhat less hateful.  Getting some sleep (even if it's just a little) does make things a little better.  I lay there in my bed, watching Zeke sleep. He had woken up crying at 4:30 in the morning, so I let him come into bed with us.  He was lying there, with his head on my pillow, butt up in the air.  He's so gorgeous, with his little rosebud mouth and his little chubby cheeks and his long eyelashes.  

And all of a sudden, he laughed, in his sleep.  And the laugh woke him up, and he opened his eyes and smiled at me.

"Mama!"  Big smile, more giggles.

"Hi, monkey.  Did you have a funny dream?"

"Mama!"  And he leaned over and put his mouth on my cheek and said, "mwah," and gave me a kiss.  Then he buried his face in my neck.  "Mama," he sighed.

He jumped up and started running around the bed, giving Jason kisses, giving me kisses, and generally smiling and giggling and having a ball.

And just like that, I felt better.

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 * Zeke was asleep, so he was spared my wrath.  And for the record, I neither clawed Jason's eyes out nor kicked the dog.  I just sat on the couch and glowered.