My darling computer is in the shop, and while I can use my husband's every now and then, it freaks me out so I generally steer clear. But knowing that my one fan is waiting with bated breath for the next installment of "As the Bun Turns," I leave you with these thoughts: 1) If you work in a maternity store as a clerk, it is best to hide your surprise when the woman you're helping tells you she's still got four months to go until lift-off.
2) One would hope that the tit fairy would arrive with the rest of the package, but alas, it is not always the case. Or perhaps my boobs are less impressive merely due to the size of my tum. Which is impressive, as evidenced by the look of shock on the shop-girl's face.
3) Any dignity you retained as a normal human goes out the window with the inconvenience of bunliness because of discomfort and awkwardness. I am frequently grunting, gasping, scratching, pulling errant undies from my hiney, bubbling and groaning because of this temporary lodger. My husband truly loves me, since any pretense of class or taste has been sacrificed for bitching and comfort. And I didn't have much class or taste before the bun.
4) There should be a mandatory training class for touring baby departments and clothing stores.
5) My friends have started calling the bun "Little Nachos" and singing songs about him. Unfortunately, we have all followed suit, and I fear that it may stick after his arrival. I imagine the beatings a kid called "Little Nachos" will get in the schoolyard, and hope that if there is a God, that it will magically wipe the "Little Nachos" memory chip from the collective hard-drive before he's born. Otherwise, I fear protective services may be showing up.