I gave them the perameters (between 1 and 5), and Anna guessed 20 centimeters. I started to retort, "Do you know what I would be walking like if I was diala . . . ," but was stopped by the sad realization that perhaps I do walk like that.
My feeling of overbloated-pregnant-lady-ness did not end there. (You know me. This story had to get worse.) Every morning, Sean gets into his car to drive to work and I pile the girls into the van to take Anna to school. This is a familiar routine, usually accompanied by the familiar sounds of "We're late. Hurry! Buckle up!" Today, as I leapt into the van, I heard the unfamiliar sound "rrrrriiiiiipppppp," as the seam of my pants literally disintegrated into obli
vion. Sean, in a (shocking and out-of-character) display of complete un-sympathy, said, "I've really got to go. Don't worry about it. You don't get out of the car to drop her off."True, but the 2 foot split down the crotch of my pants was visible from the moon. Can you imagine if I was pulled over?
Officer - "Please step out of the car, Ma'am."
Me - "You really don't want me to."
Officer - "I said, 'Please step out of the car, Ma'am.'"
Me - "And I said, 'You really don't want me to.'"
Officer - "Ma'am, we're going to have to bring you down to the station."
Me - "Do you have a change of pants there?"
But I would like to pause and express gratitude to the sticktoitiveness of that seam. You made it seam, until almost the very end of two pregnancies. Its not your fault that I have worn you beyond what most pant seams have to endure. Thank you, pants seam, for not giving out at the doctor's office. Thank you, pants seam, for not ripping when I needed to look put together. Thank you, seam, for not disintegrating when I bent over at the park. Thank you, children, for not laughing until you fell out of your car seats.
If bad things usually happen in threes, I'm terrified to see what else this day holds.
