Another weird thing for the list:
When I was pregnant, I had a plantar's wart on the bottom of my foot. Gross, right? I swear it appeared about two days after my positive test, and it hung around until right after I stopped breastfeeding. I wasn't allowed to use any over-the-counter wart remedies and my dermatologist wouldn't touch it. "It's probably hormonal," she said. "It'll go away on it's own."
Well, FINE, IT DID, but in the meantime I was so horribly embarassed about the disgusting thing on my foot that I refused to get pedicures, despite that being everybody's suggestion to pretty much every pregnancy complaint on earth.
Feeling fat? Treat yourself to a pedicure! Stressed? Swollen? Anxious? 400 years pregnant and not dilated at all? A PEDICURE WILL FIX EVERYTHING.
I did get one prenatal massage at some point, but I lied and told the masseuse I'd sprained my foot so could she not rub that one at all?
I remembered this sort of randomly yesterday, right when the massage therapist flipped back the sheet and started to work on my foot and I involuntarily flinched because OH NO! HE'LL SEE I HAVE A WART AND THINK I AM GROSS. Then I remembered it's gone now and got back to the serious business of serious relaxing.
(See what I did there?)
Jason woke me up yesterday morning: Time to get up. You're going to the spa. All day! Surprise!
I tried to insist that no, I could not go to the spa today, I had websites to update! Websites! But since I totally just made that up, I went to the spa instead.
MY INCREDIBLY BUSY SCHEDULE:
9 am Cream and sugar body scrub, which sounded so delicious I don't think anyone can blame me for sticking my tongue out to taste it. Which was a bad call on my part.
10 am Best damn massage I have ever had in my entire life, especially the part when he told me that if I'm going to let Noah hang off my neck like a monkey I am just going to require regular massages, end of story. For my HEALTH. They are PRESCRIPTION MASSAGES. I could totally die otherwise.
11 am Facial, performed by a completely wrinkle-free woman who didn't look a day over 30, but then she started talking about what menopause is doing to her skin. I opted not to tell her about the Advice Smackdown.
12 pm A spa lunch, which was all kinds of healthy and full of antioxidents or something. Blah. But I got to read US Weekly completely uninterrupted.
1 pm Manicure and pedicure, during which I dug myself into a conversation hole when she started telling me some story about...something? A wrong phone number? I don't know. I couldn't understand her accent and opted to fake it and follow her cues for when to laugh, but then there was a whole other part to the story and I had no freaking clue what was going on, and she probably referenced the story about seven times during the manicure and I kept fake laughing when she laughed, and I felt like a total shit.
3 pm HAIRCUT OH MY FREAKING GOD. I copped to the kitchen scissor haircut I gave myself, although she insisted I'd actually done a pretty decent job, but still had to cut about three inches off to get my hair back in the "looks like hair" realm instead of the "looks like dried-out straw that the cow didn't quite totally digest, if you know what I mean" category.
Needless to say, I was pretty damn happy by the time I got home, and was fully prepared to put out, but Jason was not done yet. He cooked dinner, which included a printed-out menu and wine pairings and oysters and risotto and duck and dessert and every course had something red for Valentine's and I Am Not Shitting You Even In The Slightest.
(Dear Noah: I'm sorry for lying and telling you that 7:30 was night-night time. You'll understand when you're older and your dad has taught you all his tricks. Dude, you are going to get so much tail.)
I think it was during the White Russian Milkshakes (!!) when I declared yesterday to pretty much being the greatest day of my whole life, even beating out the day Noah was born, since even though I'd spent both days naked, on tables and wearing borrowed robes, there was just so much more dignity and a lot fewer fluids involved this time.
And for some reason, Jason chose this exact moment to finally tell me, after nearly 17 months of letting me think otherwise, that I had indeed pooped while trying to push Noah out.
Ahh, elusive dignity. One day you will be mine! For more than a couple hours, perhaps!
Anyway, pooping stories aside, it was a really fucking great day and I can't even pretend that it was anything other than completely awesome. My husband rules, man. RULES.
He even moved the tire down to the basement while I was out.
Now I must be off, for Jason needs some socks. And I am going to buy him some socks. Because I also rule.