Compound fracture: Saturday/Sunday special

Fwoo, writing on the internet is hard. I missed another day of content challenge. Amy is trouncing me with the alphabet. So far, I have managed to sneer at the real estate section of the Times, as is my weekend custom, and I also ate Belgian waffles. Yesterday was more involved, but too exhausting to recount.

The wind is howling, the cat is hiding under the table, and I am trying not to think about mini tacos because if I eat them all, they will be gone. The movers dropped off a billion boxes the other day, and I should be filling them and labelling them, but we can’t have that. I am also supposed to be doing something career-related, but I just. don’t. care. The parasite releases chemicals that make my brain fuzzy. It’s a warm, cuddly static, more like being trapped in a duvet than the usual January ennui, but the end result is much the same. We have pressing matters to address like playing “Who’s the baby!!!!!!,” which involves lying on the couch with a hand on the abdomen waiting for bonks. The baby is indignant when Mr. H takes his hand away, and the cat turns around and glares when petting stops. High needs.

Friday we took the gruesome ultrasound pictures over to oblige Mr. H’s family. Since he is a bastard, he held out two pictures, side by side. His mother freaked out, asking “Am I looking at TWO pictures?” And he said “Yes, you are looking at two pictures.” His sister jumped up and did an end zone dance, all “In your face, I was right, I was right, it’s twins!” No, but there are two pictures. I am not sure what made her think it was twins, since I am now 50% done gestating but have no obesity to show for it. Apparently my innards are spacious. So I asked about her reasoning, and it seems Darlene the psychic said it would be twins. Or a boy. Or a red-haired girl. Darlene is very diplomatic.

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