The squash. And the monetary consequences.

Please ignore my unmade bed (I had just taken a nap). And the dirty mirror (I have a four year old). And my lime green slippers (actually, I don't apologize for those. Why should I take off my favorite footwear just for you?).

Per request--not because I like taking pictures of my stomach--here is our genderless (to us, at least) spaghetti squash. All one pound of him/her nestled in fourteen pounds of luscious flesh. Allan tries to convince me that it's fourteen pounds of blood and placenta. Dear heart, I do love that man.

Getting dressed every morning involves a lot of frustration. Yesterday before church it involved tears. No, really. I do not enjoy my pregnant-ness. I did not with Jack, and I fear I'm enjoying it even less with this one. I have one flattering maternity dress. And by flattering, I mean it doesn't make me look like I'm wearing clothes from a pre-gastric bypass life. I'm tall. Anything that is actually long enough to cover the squash is enormous everywhere else. I'm wearing a Shade shirt in this picture. And as much as I'm grateful that it works, I don't want to make this one undershirt my wardrobe staple for the next four months.

It's also getting warm, which means I can't wear my winter coat over everything anymore. I have to bare the belly. And the huge clothes on top.

This morning I went maternity shopping. Online at the site from where my one flattering dress comes. I spent a good hour putting warm weather maternity basics into my cart, confident that I was being discerning and frugal: Two summer Sunday/night out dresses, three pairs of capris, one denim skirt, one house dress, five t-shirts, and a desperately needed pair of workout pants. I go to check out and what do I see? $423. And that is after my 25% off coupon. I actually started crying. Then I went to Allan, bemoaning the fact that I have to buy new clothes just because I'm gestating a baby.

My husband is pragmatic. He rationally said, "Buffy, you are having to buy a new wardrobe. One of my suits costs that much. I want you to buy what you need and what makes you feel pretty." Well, the latter part may be impossible, but I really, really appreciated his perspective. Because all my perspective has been is "there goes money from my new camera fund, my wheat grinder fund, my briefcase for Allan fund, my new breast pump fund, etc."

I figured I could deal without the house dress, one of the Sunday dresses, one t-shirt, and one pair of capris, therefore whittling the total down to $266. I transferred the money from my "presents" fund (sniffle) and checked out.

If these don't make me look at least halfway decent, I'll scream. And never leave the house again.

Since we're commanded to multiply and replenish the earth, paying $266 for maternity clothes is like paying tithing, right?

In the year 2022.

My son got seriously upset with me this morning because my answer to his question--"Mom, can you teach me how to drive the car today?"--was no.

We have a long twelve years ahead of us.

The morning after.

Yes, I was upset last night. Yes, I kind of sort of felt really disappointed in Peyton Manning's performance. Yes, I may have engaged in some emotional eating after the game.

But this morning I woke up, cheered by the memory that I'm less than a week away from this:

Two weeks of Winter Olympic OBSESSION. You can count on the Baileys to be parked in front of the television for those two weeks. And now we have HD! And a DVR!

Only five days, folks. Granted, it's five days until the opening ceremonies. I usually tune in for about fifteen minutes and then realize how boring it is to sit through all the dancing, banner-waving, parading, mandatory references to the Jamaican bobsled team, etc. Maybe I'll keep watching this year if the opening ceremonies involve Canadian rock gods Rush. Or Canadian sitcom god Alan Thicke. Just maybe...

It's the eve of The Big Game, and I can't sleep.

Last night's sleep was fitful at best. Thanks to two weeks of non-stop predictions, injury reports, interviews, etc. in sports news, I was kept up by Super Bowl anxiety. I can only imagine how Peyton Manning feels. The pressure! "Silly, Buffy," you're thinking..."the Super Bowl?!" There are many reasons why I care so much. In fact, I will number them.

1) During my very first conversation with Allan, he mentioned an acquaintance of his wanting to name their child Peyton. I responded incredulously, "Like Peyton Manning??" AND ALLAN WAS SO IMPRESSED THAT HE LATER MARRIED ME.

2) While I never cared one fig for the NFL prior to 2003, if you asked me what teams were my favorite, I would answer either the Eagles because of Chad Lewis or the Colts because of Rob Morris. My blood is blue, after all.

3) We lived in Indy for three years. It was then that I officially had a home team. The top story in Indy is unfailingly either weather-related or sports-related. You cannot help but get sucked into it all.

Now let's get down to points directly related to the actual match-up:

4) The media is fawning all over New Orleans. That annoys me.

5) The media is also picking the Colts to win. That gives me much anxiety.

6) Jeremy Shockey is icky.

7) Austin Collie has taken off, and I feel so proud--it's like my own son is playing out there.

8) Polls show that those rooting for the Colts vs. the Saints are evenly divided among political party lines. Republicans for the Colts, Dems for the Saints. I don't know about you, but I would sure love to see another Republican victory ahead of this November's mid-term elections.

9) Oh, and I have a huge crush on Peyton Manning.

EDIT: Allan put in number 9. Which I guess means that he has a huge crush on Peyton Manning. How embarrassing for him!