This is not a story about feet.

So here’s a story for you.

As many of you know, I hate feet. Hate them in general, but really, really can’t stomach even the idea of someone touching mine. It’s unpleasant. I’ve been known to take a stiff drink along with me when a pedicure is no longer optional.

This past fall, early September I believe it was, I got good and drunk (no mom, not really) and hauled my cookies to an orthopedic surgeon’s office, to see what could be done about my dear little size sevens. They need a new shape, you see. They're shaped like Stone feet, which really only means something if you're intimately familiar with a Stone, but trust me, it's something to see. Even knowing they’d have to be x-rayed and gawked over and generally manhandled, it was worth it. They hurt. All checked out and all was well. All I needed to do before I could have a teeny tiny little surgery would be to come off the pill so my leg didn’t clot and kill me, and I would be ready to reward myself with a new pair of Louboutins before the snow melted.

So I did.

I came off that itty bitty little pill that I’ve taken habitually for… let’s just say for a while. Like, a long while.

And because I’m one of those damn blessed, lucky, everything-good-happens-to-her kind of people, I got myself immediately knocked up.

That’s right dear readers.

For those of you who’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to in my silence for the past year, now you know.

I’d decided (sort of, and sort of just let happen) to take a break from the blog. Maybe less randomly funny things were happening to me as I settled into Midwestern midlife? Maybe I just got lazy? Mostly I filled my spare time with a charming man, his charismatic five year old, and was generally too content and too tired to write much at the day’s end.

Welp, that’ll teach me.

 

A couple of you, upon hearing the good news, asked if I'd be blogging about it. And here I am, so I guess so. Because God knows how this is gonna go for me. Or the poor guy who gets to go it alongside of me. But He also knows (both of them): it's gonna be funny. I mean, seriously. Me. With a kid. That's got to be good for a story or two, no?

Stay tuned – nineteen and a half weeks till he gets here. Also known as “till all hell breaks loose.”