Just call me "Your Fatness"

I learned something yesterday that I had been considering for some time – that my children are all liars, as are some of my grandchildren.

How do I know this?

Good question.

Lamenting for years about how my tummy had grown to mountainous proportions, I heard comments like, "Oh, mom, stop. You're not fat," or, "You've had four kids, what do you expect?"

Now you might think that last statement was confirmation that my exponentially extended belly was in fact enormous, but the comment was usually followed by, "You're  not fat."

I realize that everybody was just trying to be polite (translation: to lie), but I wanted the truth.

Yesterday I got it when my four-year old granddaughter patted me on the belly and asked, "Grandma, are you pregnant?"

Yes, Audrey, I am. I call my baby, "Tumor." Sadly, he will never be born and I will have to carry him around with me for the rest of my life. 

I fantasize about poking a needle into the flab then vacuuming it like liposuction. I am, however, afraid I might pass out when the needle opens my skin, and when paramedics find me, they will see gelatinous blobs of fat that seeped out of my body. Reminds me of Oprah Winfrey with her wagon of fat. I couldn't do that to the paramedics.

Wonder what would happen if I ate only sunflower seeds for the rest of my life.

One positive thought I can take away from all of this is that while I may look like I'm ready to give birth, I must at least took young enough to be able to do so.