These love handles are really starting to grow on me.

Almost a year and a half ago, I was asked to stand up in my friend's wedding. At the time, my little boy was 6 months old and I still had a little (ahem, quite a lot) of post-partum pudge around my middle.
"I'd love to be in your wedding." I smiled, then frowned, "wait, when will it be?"
"Oh, not until June next year," my friend replied. "We're waiting a while so we can enjoy being engaged and take our time with the plans and everything."
Did I mention my friend is stunning? I mean STUN-NING! She has long blonde hair, she's tall and slender. Oh and she's not just all long hair and long legs. She has a beautiful face, she's pretty, her skin is perfect, her smile is genuine and her clothes are always immaculate and matched with just the right accessories. You know what else is beautiful about my friend? She doesn't even think she's as beautiful as she is. She's able to see flaws in herself that I really don't believe exist. She's funny and self-depreciating and yet, she appreciates how good life has been to her all at the same time. OK, so I sound a little obsessed with my friend, but I just wanted to give you the full picture. The girl's got style.
"Well, I think long engagements are a good thing," I added. "There's no need to rush. This way, you have time to plan your wedding just as you always pictured it." And I have time to lose some pudge, I thought.
Well fast forward one year and three months and the pudge is most definitely not gone. In fact, I think I have more now than I did back then. Grrrr! I guess I can't complain if I'm going to insist on drinking a beer and eating some haagan daaz most nights of the week along with never working out. I wouldn't say I'm fat, but if you need a muffin top in your wedding pictures, I've got one you can borrow. I'm probably at my highest non pregnant weight, but I don't know for sure because I do not own a scale. This way I can live in my happy little world of refusing to make sacrifices and be in total denial about the fat that is ever so slowly (it's tricky that way) creeping up onto my thighs and butt, probably even as I type.
So, we recently went shopping for bridesmaid's dresses downtown. I should mention here that since having a child and moving to the north suburbs I hardly ever go downtown. I've become what I always dreaded; a suburban mom. Downtown intimidates me. People downtown usually work there and have to look good for their jobs. My saggy jeans, worn out grey mom cardigan and (way overdue for a cut and highlights) hairdo don't exactly fit in. The bride and her other bridesmaid are both 6 years younger than me and went to college together. They both still live, work and play downtown.
We got to a rather swanky store that specializes in bridesmaid attire, where we were greeted by a lady who I can only assume was the manager.
"You came back?" she gave a brisk smile to the bride and eyed us up and down. "So, these are your bridesmaids? Let me grab those two dresses you looked at so we can try them on. OK? And have you decided what fabric you like? Have you seen the fabric? Let's get the folder with the swatches so you can check those out while we're waiting for the dresses to be pulled," She spoke loudly and fast and I was somewhat convinced she may have had a quick sniff of coke in the loo before we arrived. She started yelling at one of the sales girls to grab the dresses that had been put back as if it were a matter of urgency, "You know, the Coren Moore's I put back last Friday? Oh and where's the folder the with the swatches?"
The bride sidled up to us, whispering out of the side of her mouth, "I don't know what her deal is. She wasn't quite this hyper last week."
A minute later as we looked through swatches of material, the lady came armed with two dresses. One was a short halter neck with a high waist band and an A-line skirt with pockets and the other was a short one shouldered dress cut high at the waist with a more full skirt. Both dresses were very cute and youthful. Two words I can safely say I don't use when describing myself these days!
The other bridesmaid tried on the dresses first. There were some stylish open toe high heels in the fitting room for us to try on too, to get the full look. Bridesmaid number one came out in the first dress and looked good. Although not petite, she's an attractive girl and (I noticed eyeing the shoes) she had beautifully pedicured toenails. The second dress was pretty flattering too. She declared she loved them both and would be happy wearing either on the big day.
When my turn came to try on dresses I realized that a) Not only had I not had a pedicure since last summer and my feet were looking gross and scaly, but b) I was wearing a very old, very saggy bra (Which was not doing my large sagging breasts any favors). And to top it all off c) when the hell was the last time I did any bodily grooming for heaven's sake? I had some nasty stubble under my arms, my legs were as hairy as big foot's and I was sporting some lovely dry cracked skin on my knees (winter in Chicago will do that to you if you don't lotion up every day and who has time to apply lotion to their whole body every day? I'm barely able to shower without my little guy pulling back the curtain and hurling toys and books into the bath tub. It's all I can do to manage avoiding being hit by flying Cookie Monster while rinsing the shampoo out of my hair).
I put on dress number one and was not surprised when I couldn't do the zip up all the way over my boobs. I gingerly made my way out of the dressing room mumbling something about how being a nursing mom had made my boobs even bigger than they were before (which was never small). I really hoped that nobody looked at my gross toes (which were sporting fluff from my socks under the toenails).
"Obviously I'll be shaving my legs and putting lotion on before the big day, so my legs won't look this bad," I snorted in embarrassment. The manager ignored me completely and continued chatting to the bride about fabrics and ordering dates and such. Bridesmaid number one gave me a sympathetic smile. Oh why on earth did I not think of shaving my legs and putting some gold bond on my knees? But, one positive, my large boobs, along with the high, thick waistband, did give the impression that my waist was tiny. And I liked the skirt with pockets. The off the shoulder number not only wouldn't do up over my boobs, but made my hips and ass look monstrous. So, it was dress number one for me. Bridesmaid number one chose that one too, and soon we were sent to a corner for crazy manager lady to get our measurements. She declared loudly that bridesmaid number one, being so tall would need to pay for extra fabric for the length. Then it was my turn. "Arms up," she barked, taking my bust, waist and hip measurements. "Oh, you're going to need the ten," she loudly announced. "You could have fitted into an eight, but your bust measurement is REALLY large. See?" she held up the sheet of paper she'd been writing on for me to see. "You'll have to get it altered to fit your body shape when it comes in. We can recommend a good alterations specialist, unless you have one, but you'll need someone skilled. If it weren't for your boobs..." Why the hell did she have to talk so loudly? Thanks lady. If I wasn't feeling sexy before, you just quashed any hope I ever had of feeling like a vixen now!
So, $256.00 later, my lovely size ten dress is ordered. It's less than three months until the wedding, and I'm almost sure I won't loose an ounce between now and then. I don't get to sleep at night, I deserve ice cream and beer. At least that's what I'm telling myself. Well, that and that I should head to Macys to buy myself a minimizer bra. With these "REALLY large" boobs tamed underneath a good brassiere, maybe, just maybe I'll be wearing my size 8 dress after all. And if not, well at least my armpits won't be stubbly, my legs will be silky smooth and my toes will beautifully pedicured. That's as long as I can make it out of the shower unscathed.

What the f*#k is wrong with Daddy?!!

My day started with my little guy getting out of bed (our bed where he has been sleeping every night for the past few months I might add, but that's another story) and grabbing at me while yelling "mamamamamamamamamama." It was 5:50 am. Not too terrible, considering there have been days when he's up at 5 sharp. But 7, no scratch that, 8 would be much better.
"Go see Daddy," I attempted in a bright voice. My husband made noises like he was pretending to still be in deep sleep. "Please, please, please take him? I'll give you twenty dollars if you take him," I nudged my husband. "Just for ten minutes. Pleeeaaaase?"
He roused himself and sat on the side of the bed. "Come see Daddy," he croaked, standing up with a sigh and finding a shirt to put on. But the little guy just stood by my bedside refusing to move. "Mama!" he chirped.
"Go see Daddy. Look! Daddy!" I attempted to make this sound very fun.
"No Maaamaaa," he wailed throwing himself on the floor.
"But it's too early and Mommy's not a morning person and the coffee grinder didn't even go off yet. Please go with Daddy. Mommy will be out soon. I promise."
"Mamamamamamama," by this time he had a firm grip on my hand and was flinging himself around trying to get me to move.
But I never ever go to bed early enough, and last night was no exception. And doesn't this boy know that mommy isn't a morning person, but that Daddy is? My husband picked up the boy and took him screaming and kicking out of the room. Anyone would think I'd just sent him off for a life of hard labor. It's just Daddy for crying out loud (sometimes literally). What's so bad about Daddy?
It's not like he doesn't spend quality time with his Dad, or isn't close with him. My husband is a teacher, so he's always home early enough to play with the boy in the evenings and we take turns bathing him and putting him to bed.
Sadly, I only got ten extra minutes of peace, because the husband had to get in the shower and get ready for work.
Happily when I did get out of the bed the coffee was made and I crept into the kitchen, sneaking up on my coffee pot in the hopes that I could get the milk and splenda in my cup before I was heard by my son. Sure enough little footsteps came pounding my way and soon he was tugging on my bath robe saying" Upppeeese, upppeeese." Well at least he's learned some manners. There's one thing I'm doing right.
When we got into the living room I noticed his right eye looked weird and swollen. We just took him to the doctor for an ear infection last Friday (the 6th one since december, they don't tell you about those in the manual), but this morning we had to go in again to get his eye checked out. Sure enough the poor little love has pinkeye. He looks like he went a few rounds with Mike Tyson. Wonderful! That's all our play dates (aka mom's coffee dates) cancelled for this week. Booo to that. So we took the dog to the park, went to pick up eye drops, attempted to put in eye drops, decided should definitely wait for hubby to hold down child while I administer said eye drops, I actually did some housework (well light picking up) and ran some errands before my husband got home and it was time to prepare dinner.
"Mommy's going to make dinner now, go play with Daddy for a few minutes, OK Love?" I said gently.
"No. Mama," he pouted.
"But Mommy has to get dinner ready, go with Daddy."
This time he stood between me and the oven (which luckily wasn't on, I'm more of a quick pasta dinner on the stove type person.) wrapping his arms around my legs and demanding "mamamamama," while stomping his feet.
I looked at my husband who stepped in to take him into the playroom and distract him with his train set, meanwhile the little guy was wailing like his life depended on it. I suppose I should be flattered, but sometimes I just want to ask him, "What the f@*K is wrong with Daddy? I married him, he can't be all that bad can he?!"
After eating (read, throwing on floor for dog to eat) dinner, he was finally distracted enough to allow his father to bathe him while I cleaned up and sat down to write this. I can hear him now, laughing and playing like nothing happened. What an emotional little roller coaster of a child. So perhaps Daddy's not so bad after all. In fact, maybe, just maybe, there will come a time where I can say, "What the f*&k is wrong with mommy?!!" But sadly, I don't think that time will come at 5:50 tomorrow morning. Better get the coffee pot prepared....