I’m having a fat day.  My muffin top has runneth over.  The exercise routine I had miraculously kept up for an astonishing FIVE MONTHS has fallen by the wayside, and once again I find myself rummaging through the cabinets for anything resembling chocolate come 4pm.  Considering the staples of our household this holiday season were basically butter cookies, French onion dip and pomegranate margaritas, I have to say, I’m not looking too hot right now – which brings me to my quandary.  Is it wrong, when your jeans are just the slightest bit tight, to dig out those super soft, extra stretchy, absurdly comfortable, flaw hiding and most importantly perfectly fitting maternity jeans?  I know you’ve thought about it – so hear me out.

 Buying maternity jeans was quite possibly the easiest shopping experience I’ve had since the second grade when clothes were chosen for me by my mother.  If the clothes fit, they were mine – regardless of how I felt about stripped polyester turtlenecks or plaid kilts.

 With maternity jeans, I was expecting something more on par with buying a bathing suit – or the mother of all garment purchases…the wedding gown.  I was shocked to find that buying maternity jeans was more like buying a pair of mittens.  You find a pair you like, select the appropriate size or thereabouts, put them on, realize they are just what you need, and go on your merry-denim-clad-way.  “How is this possible?” any sensible woman who has purchased jeans anytime in her adulthood would ask??  Every woman knows that a minimum of 3,000 pair of jeans MUST be tried on before finding a pair that don’t make her look-fat-ride-up-her-ass-are-too-short-look-dumb-etc.etc.etc.  THAT is the mystery and the magic of the maternity jean my friend.  Is it so wrong that after throwing back a couple dozen Whole Foods “two-bite” cupcakes with a side of pumpkin pie that I want to slip back into those mystical pants?  The ones that don’t care that I’ve put on a few, can handle the extra curves and will still make me look fine as hell?  Judge me if you must…but I know you’re wondering exactly where it is you stashed yours.

A few weeks ago my cohort in madness (aka husband)*  decided it would be very amusing to teach our 2 year old son the phrase “Mommy is cuckoo” along with the gesture of using his index finger to make circles next to his ear.  Even I thought it was quite amusing at the time and much better than his walking around saying “Sh*t” which is, sadly, what he had gotten from me one particularly clumsy afternoon.

This week, though, it was just me alone with the crazy midget while the spouse was away on business enjoying the privilege of going to the bathroom uninterrupted.  I’m stuck trying to keep Supernanny at bay – she’s knocking at the door but I’m not answering.  So, as I made breakfast on Wednesday, P decided that all those hours we’ve watched of HGTV inspire him to “update” our couch. Not happy with the light olive color it currently is, he added nice large patches of blue, red, and yellow.  I catch him as he is happily hard at work and moving slowly toward our unsuspecting napping cat. When, of course, he hears his name, quickly ditches the evidence like a perp on cops (no shoes or shirt on either) and runs as fast as his little legs can go.  Once apprehended, the little felon heads straight to Time Out and I make a beeline for the cleaning supplies.  And for the next two minutes he’s in the clink all I hear, in a soft, happy voice, on continuous repeat, is: “cuckoo Mommy, mommy cuckoo!” like a bad meditation mantra…

Now, I’m making a mental note to thank my husband for this particular bit of “wisdom” he imparted to our child while I thumb through the yellow pages of divorce lawyers. Of course, all they’d have to do is call my toddler to the stand and he’d simply tell them to commit me.

*On a side note, this is the same man who took our son to a sick visit at the pediatrician one Saturday morning and when the Dr. asked where I was he said dryly: “in bed, drunk.” The Doc raised an eyebrow and asked if he was serious because she would have to report me to Child Services. I was at home cleaning the house, just to set the record straight.