Ziggy at 40,000 Feet

Ziggy and I are flying over the clouds right now, and there’s a toddler behind us. A very unhappy toddler. Here are the things that have gone through my head:

  1. I am never flying with my kid. EVER.
  2. I cannot be annoyed at the shrieking child behind me. I cannot be annoyed at the shrieking child behind me. I cannot be… ahhhh!
  3. (when the girl was up on the middle seat, peeking over at me) Cute! I’m so glad I’m not in the seat in front of her.
  4. Those poor parents.
  5. This is what my life is going to be like.

Am I as annoyed as I used to be in these situations? Probably. What has changed is that I do not in ANY WAY blame those parents. I’m just glad I’m not them. Yet.

I’m flying back to Nashville and —



I won’t see the hus for a month – he’s staying in Florida to direct our show. Then I’m driving back down with my mom to open the show, get his mom packed up, and drive a three car caravan back to Nash. I’ll be starting my 8th month during that last trip – we will be stopping frequently.

The husband is going to be in for a shock when I see him at the end of June. Sure, I’m bumping a little now, but this sucker’s got a lot of room to grow and it seems to be doing so every day. I will be large and in charge when I head back down to FL.

He wants to try to avoid pictures of me until then to get the full effect, which means I am going to be subject to his face when he sees me. He’s a terrible face-liar, and by that time, I expect the hormones will not let me deal with his shock and awe gracefully.

I’ll get over it, of course, because I’ll need to be bigger to accommodate the little Zig inside. I don’t want to cramp his style. Whatever room he needs, he should take. Even if it means knocking down a few drinks with my enormous stomach.

Pregnancy Weirdness update: I have recently discovered what the blogs mean by ‘leg cramps’. Not so awesome. Also, Ziggy appears not to be a morning person. He doesn’t start tapping on my insides until around 11, but he keeps going well into the night. Like father, like fetus.


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