It’s a quarter to six. Michelle had her bath and I was finally able to get her back into bed. I had come in to check on her while she was still in our tub (in a future house, we are demanding a bathtub that wasn’t designed for carnival folk) and her belly was feeling a bit better, but everything else on her body hurt like hell. If you’re more than 4 feet tall, you have to contort your body like a magician’s assistant to fit inside our tub, and then if you’re also trying to submerge your pregnant belly underwater, then you practically have to break bones. So I helped her out of the tub and then we got to share a very heartfelt moment together, one that I hope every pregnant couple gets to be a part of … it’s the lovely experience of pink projectile KFC, all over the bathroom. It was very special. And it was everywhere. And not just once, either. It happened again. And again. I feel bad for her, after getting out of the bathtub you’re supposed to feel better! For some reason it didn’t gross me out in the least (as it usually does) … I guess it’s time I get used to gross things?
Now that she’s back in bed and the sun is already out and I don’t think the baby is poking his head out quite yet, I’m going to go wash the rug and her robe and the floor and the wall and the tub now.
KFC was a bad choice.