Will the floor please open up and swallow me?

It had been a *good* day at church, no major melt down of the toddler or mommy, I even felt somewhat sustained and lifted up. Coming from the girl who has been dragging surly teenagers, wild gradeschoolers and a baby/toddler to church by HERSELF for the past year and a half, the significance of feeling the Spirit, *during a church meeting!*, is clearly recognized. But I guess my luck was bound to change sooner or later. I was making my way to the door, I was almost there, and I got asked the question everyone dreads: "Oh! Are you pregnant?" (Also known as "I didn't know you were expecting!", "When are you due?", and "Don't you know what causes that?")

Lemme just give you a 'lil hint: If you don't know the answer, don't ask. ;O)

I want to be perfectly clear here: I am not fat. I don't have a self-image or self-esteem problem. What I do have is three kids, and a body that likes to wait until the 2 year mark to go back to normal. All attempts to fool nature are doomed to failure, and I've just gotten used to the idea that my body likes to hold on to those extra pounds until the two year mark. Then it comes off with relative ease. Lucky for me, I also had a sympathetic, wonderful doctor deliver my last c-section and he did the very best he could to put me all back together this time. Ship shape. Where my muscles were torn in two down the middle, I've been carefully stitched up and I'm told that I can now nurture the glimmer of hope that I may one day have a *gasp* FLAT STOMACH. Apparantly, I wasn't really built well in that area, as I've always sported a pooch, even in my days as a cowgirl extrodinare with thighs of steel, buns that could crack walnuts and lats that inspired awe.

None the less, can we all say "Ouch"? It was painful and awkward. Probably even more for her than for me. Whine over.

So if you've struggled through this long, I'll reward you with a funny story. If there's anything I've gotten good at, it's having a little fun at my own expense.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to my BIL, the perfect one, and we had a wonderful dinner, celebrating with family for no real reason other than the fact that my SIL and her newish hubby flew down with her youngest son who had just come home from a mission to Tokyo, Japan. We talked, we relaxed, we chatted. We all decided to ride into town and see the Chiropractic facility owned by my BIL and FIL since the water therapy pool was now up and running, and go to the bookstore. When we returned, we had the munchies so we drug the food back out and commenced to eating. I chatted happily with my husband as he filled his plate, and turned to set my plate on the table in the other room. When I returned, I saw *my husband* leaning over the dishwasher, fishing out forks. I walked over, began to rub his back and was just about to put my arms around his waist when, his voice came from my left side: "What are you doing to my brother?"

Yeah, that was way worse than the "are you pregnant?" thing.

Even funnier was my newish BIL complaining to my husband to be quiet, he had wanted to see what was going to happen.

Thank goodness for me, I didn't go for the gratuitous grope that is so tempting when one finds ones spouse with his head in the dishwasher.

And that's all I have to say about that.