Speaking Of Ribbons...

So, I guess I shouldn't have bragged about the quality of sleep I've been getting lately. Because Karma, that nasty little deviant who clearly needs a job, had something to say about that. And I spent all of last night laying in bed... wide awake... in between potty breaks and bouts of 5 minutes of sleep.

I do believe that last night marked the first time that it hit me... it really hit me... that Benny and I were no longer the globe-trotting couple we've enjoyed being for the last six years. And HOLY COW... we're gonna be a family. And that means that we must both grow up. And always have veggies and fruit in the house. And have a house. And a job... that's no longer an option, is it? And start to stay Argh! instead of our preferred plethora of swear words. (And... FYI, 'tis better to say Argh in a pirates voice... gives more credence to your displeasure.)

Yes... all of this ran through my mind last night when I should have been in la-la land dreaming about food. Which explains why I was in my office at 7:45 a.m.. Sersly... WHO WORKS AT THIS INSANE HOUR OF THE DAY?

Surprisingly, work helped with the anxiety. And because she knows I lurve it, Tweet did what she could by kicking around in her temporary home. Apparently, we've got a soccer player on our hands. And not that I don't love soccer... but I've always been more of a climate-control athlete. Especially after I've witnessed Soccer Moms come home after a Saturday out in the rain or snow. I'm holding out hope that Tweet will figure out that with her God-given height (I'm calling 5-10 out of the womb) she'll be into volleyball. And yes, I'll support her in that sport even if she does wear ribbons in her hair to match the rest of her team... a HUGE pet peeve of mine. But playing in a gym where there's no such thing as a sunburn or frozen toes? TOTALLY WORTH IT.

And speaking of how tall our little Tweet is gonna be... I came home this afternoon to find that our very own Greyhound had sent Tweet (c/o me) The Tall Book.

How could he have known that I've been having dreams about birthing a full-grown woman?

The inside of the jacket reads:

Tall people:
Smart.
Wealthy.
Successful.
U.S. Presidents.
Oscar winners.
NBA players.
CEO's.

Scrunched into airplane seats.
Unable to find good clothes.

WHY?

In the book, the author, Arianne Cohen, attempts to unlock the mysteries at the center of talldom. Like, why do tall people succeed professionally, financially and intellectually far more than others? (Which makes me think that clearly, I can't be counted among the tall anymore... Or, am I just an outlier?)

Apparently, she travels from endocrinologists' offices to the annual European Tall Club Convention in search of answers. I wonder if she ever bothered to check the nearest farm as I'm convinced that farm girls grow like weeds cuz we eat so well. And so often. Something that will follow us throughout our lives and next thing you know, we get pregnant and eat the house.

The endocrinologist mention has intrigued me, because when I was born, I grew so fast that by the time I was something like 5 months old, my pediatrician told my mom that he thought there might be something wrong with me and sent her to an endocrinologist to take some blood. And, I think you can all imagine how 5-month-old's and needles get along, right? In fact, along with my pediatrician, my mother was getting pressured from her friends to check to make sure that I wasn't the next Andre' the Giant. The doc even asked my mom: What are you gonna do if she ends up being 6-7?

Apparently, love for your children - like your average roller coaster - has a height requirement? Anyway, mom told him what any mother would tell an idiot like this: "Well, I guess I'll have a 6-7 daughter. What would you have me do? Cut her off at the knees?"

And honestly, the only way that I could demonstrate how excited I was to get this book... besides the fact that I rushed to pour myself a fruit punch with soda water and lime... is to equate it to this:

YOU GOT ME THE TALL BOOK!!!!
OMG! OMG! OMG!!!

Thanks, Greyhound! You're the best.