The Tadpole

For much of the Spring and Summer, I've been actively campaigning for the role of Godmother to my only Sister's first born, whom we've been lovingly referring to as The Tadpole.

In truth, Sissy already promised the position to me many years ago, although I've yet to be formally appointed, as there are still over four months before The Tadpole makes its grand entrance.

In light of this, initially I wondered if I was being presumptuous when I'd refer to the baby as my Godchild.  After all, Sissy's husband has three Sisters of his own, in theory all potential contenders.

This demure attitude didn't last long, however; earlier this month I bought Sissy a picture frame that says "I love my Godchild."  She was amused: "Shouldn't you keep this frame, though?"  "No," I explained, "I want you to display it in The Tadpole's room, with a picture of me holding him or her."

I am head over heels crazy for this child already and cannot wait to lavish him or her with toys and gifts, and cute onesie outfits with catchphrases like, "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner." 

If you haven't already caught on, Dear Reader, The Odd Broad has been feeling rather maternal lately.  And not just with cute dogs, cats and other people's children.

Up until now, I have yet to seriously feel this way, perhaps because none of my close friends have had babies yet.  I do think that makes a difference somehow.  Currently, though, my best friend from high school is expecting, my best friend from college is trying, and my older Sister, my ultimate life-long peer, has a bun in the oven!

Seeing Sissy look so adorable with her baby bump and fashionable maternity ensembles, I can't help but think perhaps motherhood is something I could handle after all!  What was once my lovely, very far off dream is slowly morphing into something tangible. 

In addition, I'm totally interested in being able to unapologetically flaunt my belly.  It would be ever so lovely to saunter around town with a bump on my mid-region without having to explain to every Tom, Dick and Harriet that I am not knocked up, just simply bloated, slouching, or wearing an empire-waisted flowy top.

Futhermore, it would amuse me greatly if I could coax Hubby into referring to me as his baby's Mama.  I think that alone would be worth going the nine months without Riesling.

Nobody is more surprised to hear me talk this way than myself.  Of course, the reality of me becoming someone's Mother is still very far off on the horizon, only to be realized when I move from this Godforsaken city back home to the bosom of my family.  I mean, honestly, who's going to babysit for us here, the crackhead panhandling in front of Chase Bank?  No, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all.

Before I leave you, allow me to touch upon one last subject: Dearest Reader, is anything more off-putting or putrid than the phrase, "we're trying"?  Trying to do what, exactly? What this phrase specifically implies holds no place in polite conversation, wouldn't you agree?  In light of this, when I mentioned earlier that my friend from college is "trying," please know that she herself would never have me publicly refer to what her and her husband are doing (gettin' it on) as trying, nor would I myself.  Not without prior warning or explanation, at least.  There.  Glad we've cleared that one up.

XOXO

Comments

[weinerdog]

I'd babysit!!!

[The Odd Broad]

Thanks Weinie. I can just picture you now, teaching my children elaborate dance routines! xoxo

[Sissy]

You look pretty in that picture.

[The Odd Broad]

Thank you, Sister. I gave myself extra long lashes.

[Amy]

We aren't "gettin' it on" or "trying". We've been attempting to get in touch with some storks. It's a little tricky.

[Amy]

P.S. You girls are dirty!

[The Odd Broad]

There really should be an 800 for that, huh? 1-800-Dial-a-Stork...