Hubby tells me it is not safe for me to be blogging in the tub. He described in morbid detail how I might suffer if my Sony laptop, Stevie, were to fall in the water and apparently the situation would not end well for me. Or Stevie. But sorry Hubby, this is my life now. Mommy blogger living on the edge. Mother by day, superhero blogstress by night. It’s all flash and glam around here people. Yeah, that’s right. I do have clothes that smell fresh and not like baby puke, yes yes! I do speak to other adults in full sentences that do not begin with “Well my kid….” And, I do more than just Facebook picture after picture of my loin fruit! You hear that New York? I have it all!

Right after those ill-fated words, Samantha Jones from Sex and the City is hit with the mother of all colds and quickly spirals down into the reality she doesn’t have it all. How do I know this? How can I reference it at the drop of a hat? Well dear readers, it is because I have been sick sick sick for several weeks now and Jonah and I have been watching one hell of a lot of Carrie Bradshaw click click click her Manolo Blahnik heels around New York City. It has been hell.

But since I haven’t ventured further than a few feet from my door in my robe to kiss Hubby goodbye these days, this has left me with time on my hands. (Because Jonah is such a good kid, he hasn`t even really fussed since the moment when every bacteria within a twenty mile radius from me took up residence in my bodacious bod. All of them gathering for, I don`t know, Mucusfest 2012 or Tonsilgate… whatever. ) Instead of writing blogs – which is too much to ask of Jonah to give me several straight hours of silence – I’ve done a lot of puttering as I do because apparently that’s my thing. I came across a letter I wrote what seems like eons ago to my friend out east. (He’s actually my hubby’s bestie who I’ve adopted as my male bestie and is my connection to the land of the single. He’s a bonafide ladykiller. Just an FYI.) This was before the days of the blog where I can now safely say I had regained a little sanity if you can believe it. I had forgotten how early on in my pregnancy I legitimately lost my mind, like lost it. But it’s a good thing because even with this cold that is so much worse than anything Ms. Jones had, I was able to find relief with a little laughter provided by my past self. This letter of mine is so ridiculous I just had to share it with you all. Please marvel at my complete and utter breakdown. And, for the record I say poor Ladykiller Bestie. Poor, poor man…

When you signed on to Jeffry however many years ago, you inadvertently signed on to me some years later when his life became inextricably linked to mine. Happy news for you.

I am a dramatic, over-the-top person correct? Isn’t that something you said to me once? Yes, so going off of that fact please indulge me.

I need you to be a little sensitive and understanding here, because I’m not writing to be humorous or to amuse you. What I have to say comes from a real place of vulnerability and I hope somewhere inside you is the compassion I need you to have in order to really hear what I am saying.

All jokes aside. I’m fat. Oh yes, sir. Now three months into my pregnancy I’ve started to show. Can anybody tell but me? No. I’ve always had my tummy; it has always protruded a little too far, so now that it’s reaching even further nobody really notices … or at least they don’t have the gall to say. My clothes fit tighter. I can’t suck anything in anymore. On top of fat there is the dreaded ever-present pregnancy bloat. My breasts? Don’t get me started. Not only are they ballooning, they are tender and becoming uglier every day. In short I can’t hide anymore, and I never really could.

What’s worse? I work in one of the most affluent areas of Vancouver. Your regular suits drive Ferraris and Maseratis and their petit pregnant wives wear lululemon, have perfectly pressed hair, nails, skin … and even their baby bumps are perfect. They sweep in; order drinks while their husbands maintain their swollen financials, sit with their glamour personified friends and gab away. All happy and healthy mothers to be. All I am to them is a cautionary tale. Or, is that cautionary whale?

Let’s talk about sex now. Sex. What got me into the mess in the first place. Who wants to fuck Jabba the Hutt? Pretty much all I have to say on the matter isn’t it. Sure it is his job to hump me on a regular basis … but what happens if he’s thinking the exact same thing? Huh? You tell me that. Who wants the uber fat hormonal wife, the wife that can only ever be obstructed from view by a skyscraper or … Russia, the wife who looks nothing like the woman you married … who would even bother with that when there are millions of blonde svelte hunnies running around? Who can blame him for even looking at another woman? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. At this point the poor guy deserves something better.

Why am I telling you all this? I have no fucking clue. Tell Katrina you might say, well to that I say how can I tell my best friend this when she is exactly the type of woman who could never understand what it is like to be in my shoes. She’s never been even a distant acquaintance of pleasantly plump. When her time comes she going to sail right through it because that’s what she does. A perfect pregnancy, a perfect baby.

You know what the real issue is? The first thing I had to do for my baby is provide a healthy home for him/or her to grow within, and I couldn’t even manage that. Straight out from the gate I am failing as a woman, as a mother and as a wife. You hear me?

I’m three months and I am starting to show. Starting to show the small tears that in the end will rip me to shreds. And if we are going to do the math here, at intervals of three months you can expect two more emails exactly like this one.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you were typing up a friendship retraction contract right about now.

Yours truly,

Jabba

I’m kind of getting where my Hubby is coming from when he pats my head, laughes and calls me a psycho. My having friends at all is a bloody friggin’ miracle.