Someone who hadn't seen me in a while came up to me the other day and asked if I were pregnant. I said, completely straightfaced, "No."
On other occasions, I have been known to accuse people of mocking my beer gut.
Am I too much of a smartass to be a good mommy? Occasionally I wonder. Although smartassery seems to be the way to handle certain aspects of this whole parenting thing. Like when kiddo is careening off the walls at 8 a.m. and DH asks, "What did you feed him?" and I say "Crystal meth." Which is a lot simpler than saying, "I have no idea why a whole wheat mini-bagel and blueberries have caused him to run around in circles at 50 miles an hour for the past 10 minutes."
Sentimentality is a tiny bit foreign to me. I hate chick flicks, on account of the female lead characters always seem to be idiots (and the male leads always seem to be cardboard, and also idiots). I bawled at "Bridge to Terabithia," sure, but I dare you not to. I never read romance novels, unless you count "Pride and Prejudice," and you shouldn't, because it's a comedy of manners and transcends the genre and don't you dare insult Ms. Austen.
However it is an expectant mother is supposed to be acting, I'm probably not acting like it. I'm too busy cracking jokes in the corner.
And clearly I'm about to have competition there. Kiddo distinctly smirks when he crawls under the dining room table and announces "Hide!" And when we count down to 1 to get him to stop whatever it is we don't want him doing, he deliberately waits until 2, or 1, before he quits. Like a defused bomb in an action movie.
Ah well. Smartassery is a family trait.