Although our grandchild might have gone, he left behind a powerful legacy, and not just the 94% that Victoria earned taking care of him. He also left behind a powerful urge to earn extra credit in some fashion that did not involve handling a howling electronic tether.
It involved the dreaded Empathy Belly.
If you've never seen one of these things, what they do is they take fat suit, fill it up six barbells, then they punch you in solar plexus and put it on you. Then they tell you that's what pregnancy feels like.
Back in my day, when Angela was pregnant and I said "so what does it feel like?" she just kicked me in groin. Repeatedly. With boots on. Angrily.
But I got the last laugh: I told the doctors she didn't want any painkillers when our children were born. Who's laughing now?????
So anyways, they put about sixty five pounds on Victoria, and she of course folds up like an accordian at the laundromat. So they took out some weight (about 60 pounds), and strapped her up, and away she went. All day the poor girl was waddling around school, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf at a Piggy Convention, only she had to go to the bathroom a lot, so it was more like Big Bad Wolf with Bladder Problems at a Piggy Convention with Inconvenient Toilets.
On the upside, it got her out of a day of flag football, so the Empathy Belly wasn't all that bad.
She has reiterated her desire not to have children any time soon, but I told her the big payoff was that when you're really pregnant you get to feel the baby kick and move around, like when I used to feel her kick me through Angela's stomach, and then Angela would be all "that hurt!" and I'd be all "but the baby kicked my head so you have to feel sorry for me!" and then the kicking would start again, only this time Angela would join in, and I would wake up about an hour later and the house would be all dark and stuff.
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