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Titles Are For Days That Aren’t Monday

It’s Monday again. It is Thanksgiving week. I am going for two cups of coffee today. Maybe snort some pixie stix too. It could only help at this point.

I haven’t had this tired of a Monday in a while. I suppose that’s what all the traveling this weekend did to me. And all the baby holding. You will be relieved to know that the baby is still alive and well after the holding.

becca and baby

Just waiting to misplace my hands and cause her head to pop off.

After I successfully didn’t kill my godchild, I finally completed the run for which I have been training. Remember, that was why I was going to the gym so much. No attractive males involved there.

You will be happy to know that I thought of some of you while I was there. Read the rest of this entry

She Made Me an Offer I Can’t Refuse

the gosmother

[Let’s pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven’t even seen The Godfather. ]

You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.

Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.

All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry

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