Rain Check?

Finnegan Archer Evans (Final)

"Baby, you really should sit and put your feet up."

  I can't quite decide if I want to give Chris a huge kiss and 'thank you' or get angry for making me feel like I can't do anything. In my defense my hormones are all over the place. I'd probably kiss him and pop him upside the back of his head in the same breath and not think twice about it.

  My due date is right around the corner, but in this household that doesn't really matter too much with a whole other bit of excitement for the day. 

  It's Super Bowl Sunday.

  Not only is it Super Bowl Sunday, but the Patriots are playing.

  Not only is it Super Bowl Sunday and the Patriots are playing, but it's being played in our own backyard of Foxboro at Gillette Stadium. 

  Describing Chris as excited would be the understatement of the century. Why, one might ask? Because he's forgoing the at home Super Bowl Sunday party for a ticket to attend with friends, including Scott.  

  The rest of his family, along with my own, and myself will be enjoying from the comfort of our home in which I won't have to wait in a thirty women deep line for a bathroom.  Snacks will be readily available on our kitchen table, along with my own stash on the coffee table or the shelf that has grown right out of my body. 

  Yes, Chris discovered weeks ago how well our son can hold up a bowl of ice cream. He puts it there each night while feeding me my own bowl. Trying to tell him I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself is pointless.

  I also learned it holds my laptop pretty easily, too. Pretty helpful when typing up a paper and you can't bend over a table for more than ten minutes at a time without wanting to cry from discomfort. 

  I decide to play both cards evenly. I kiss him before I waddle further into the kitchen to start pulling the fruit and vegetable trays from the fridge. "I can't exactly sit and do nothing when our families are on their way over," I remind him. 

  "They're on their way, but I'm not leaving for another hour. Go, sit," he tells me again, taking the trays from my hands before kicking the fridge door shut.  Once he's sat them down, his hands are on  my shoulders, turning me and guiding me back into the living room. "Recliner or couch?"

  "Recliner I guess," I pout, not enjoying the extra doting he's pouring on me. Most women might enjoy it at this stage in the pregnancy. "No matter where I sit I'm gonna have to get someone to help me up.  Sweet Stella tries, bless her heart, but she'd have an easier time tipping a cow over than bringing one back to its feet."

  Chris' eyes narrow as he helps me sit, more like plop, down into the leather recliner. "Stop calling yourself a cow, Demi."

  "We'll see what nickname you come up with when your son is literally drinking milk from my udders," I deadpan. 

  "Don't call my boobies udders," he warns me, straight faced. 

  "Did you just call my breasts 'boobies?'  How old are you?"

  "Old enough to know that boobies are not called udders on women," he says with a childlike smirk. I shake my head in disbelief at the immaturity of this man. "But not old enough to not get jealous of the amount of time my son is going to get to enjoy your breasts."

  A conversation we've jokingly had on more than one occasion.  At about five  months in I went from being a solid B cup to a double D seemingly overnight.  I vividly remember walking into our shared office one morning, Chris looking up from his video call and literally saying, "Where did those come from?"  The call ended rather quickly after that and I gave him a good ten minutes to explore before I had to log on to my class.