Amber Lollar

Rip, tinkle, flush, wait.......

Pink lines or plus signs; doesn’t matter what sign you see on that urine soaked stick, you know what it means. I can just imagine the joy some of you mothers, or mothers-to-be, feel at the mere thought of being pregnant. The sheer notion is exasperating. 

I am priveleged to have the chance to work with my sister. It has such joyous moments. I mean, let’s be realistic, there are moments where I’d love to “judy chop” her but it really has been enjoyable, for the most part. I found out, shortly after coming to work alongside her, that she is expecting her third child. We’re all waiting with bated breath for this tiny bundle of fat rolls to make his way into the world. Having never borne a child, I can’t even comprehend the discomfort associated with the final weeks of pregnancy. I may also be a partial sociopath so my ability to feel pity on the poorly just isn’t where it should be. Sitting in this office for eight hours a day watching the struggle has been one of the most entertaining things I’ve ever witnessed. Some days I feel something that resembles sorry for how bad she really does feel, but those other days, oh thank you sweet baby Jesus for those other days. Today is one of those days. 

From the second I see her in the driveway, I recognize that she has not come emotionally equipped for this day. The nine month waddle is in full effect and those tights are working so hard to contain all of the things that my sister has become. Watching her build up the momentum just to dive, ankle-first, out of that much too large pick-up, is absolutely intoxicating. Of course, I never want her to get hurt but seeing people fall will always be funny. No exceptions...always funny. If you’re near me and your gracefulness departs, don’t retreat into your feelings because I guffaw. I will help you up, but I will be laughing while I’m helping. Same goes for the sibling; if she falls out of that rolling epitome of Southern pride I will be the first on my feet to save the day but the likelihood of mild adult incontinence in the process is a strong one. 

Throughout the day, I come to realize this kid is a retro film buff, because he never stops replaying the Alien monster out of the chest scene. There have been lumps and bumps rolling from one side to the other under that hard-working T-shirt all day! It’s fascinating to witness but it causes the stomach to roil, simultaneously. The boy’s bound to be a gymnist, or a wrestler, who can tell. Contractions are a 30 second battle, three or four times an hour. That flared-nostril, wide-eyed stare is a dead giveaway that her body is so sick of toting around this tiny pink version of the Tasmanian Devil. Not to mention that she’s verbally expressed that exact sentiment. Pregnancy is supposed to be glowing skin and tiger stripes but this one has been a green around the gills, ice crunching, reflux fest. 

Those feet though. I recognize the grammatical inaccuracy of that last statement and, believe me, it bothers me as much as it will my high school English teacher, when I send her a copy. (Shout out Mrs. Freeman!) There’s just no other way to express what’s happening down there. Those feet though. As the day nears its end, I notice how pronounced the waddle has become and I question the new symptom. Rising from her chair, ever so slowly, my sister makes her way to my desk. Along the way I glance around the desk and realize that she no longer has feet at all. She’s been trying to walk on flesh-colored yoga balls all day. I know all about swollen feet, I’ve produced a cankle or two in my day. This, though, this is not swollen. That word does no justice for the events happening. Previously dainty ankles and toes are now a collection of smoked sausages with red nail polish. That Ariel tattoo on her thigh has morphed into Ursula...poor unfortunate soles. How do the bottoms of one’s feet swell? How physically did you make that happen? 

I love this kid, as I love his sisters. I will ever be the loving aunt. I will gladly give him his first spanking and feed him sour things to watch his face contort. I will always buy him the noisiest toys, we know why aunts do that, and give him the hardest cuddles. I feel nothing but unbridled adoration for this tiny bundle of disgusting smells and I am so thankful that I’ll never, ever, EVER, experience the “joy” of motherhood.   

Amber Lollar is a marketing executive for The Henderson News. Her e-mail address is marketing@thehendersonnews.com.

© 2019, Henderson Newspapers Inc.

 

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