The guilt I’ve been carrying about disrupting Miss Skye’s life with a baby has only intensified in my final days of pregnancy, to the point that I cannot stop kissing her head or softly weeping when I rock her to sleep or letting her eat entire vats of cheesy puffs in one sitting. I realize it’s not healthy to let my child consume so many puffs that her skin turns orange and the Oompa-Loompas are claiming her as one of their own. But this is where we are. Me, succumbing to the second baby blues. Skye, working with her peeps at the Chocolate Factory. Mr. Candy and I, getting arrested for breaking child labor laws.
I could not concentrate long enough to complete a sentence yesterday, what with the searing guilt and the knowledge that a baby could drop from my crotch at any given moment (seriously, that’s how it happens — just watch I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant) distracting me. So I threw in the towel and told Mr. Candy I was going to pick up Skye from the Chocolate Factory a couple hours early. “I’ll come with you!” he e-mailed, clearly in need of his own
Miss Skye fix.
How did we spend one of our few remaining afternoons as a threesome? Running around a very mature, elegant establishment called Giggles & Hugs — where I was almost immediately rewarded with this sight:
As soon as Mr. Candy followed Skylar down that bridge, I mumbled, “Oh, that’s not a good idea,” but not loudly enough to actually stop him. That would have ruined all the fun of watching him get stuck momentarily, as he did, and having visions of the Giggles & Hugs Emergency Crew rescuing him from the netted contraption ten feet off the ground. Grab the prod and scissors. It’s a Daddy 911! As the poor guy laid there helplessly for a few beats, resembling a meat roll in sausage casing and Dockers, I did what any sensitive wife would do: grabbed my camera phone and laughed until I snorted.
They say laughter is the best medicine. But for a nine-months-pregnant lady, laughing at your husband’s expense is pretty much a cure-all.