YET ANOTHER REASON NOT TO ANSWER THE DOOR WHILE NAKED AND PREGNANT

 It was August,  and I was 9-months-pregnant-out-to-here with my first baby (You can’t see it, but I’m holding my hand waaaaaay out from my belly to demonstrate exactly how pregnant I was.).  It had been a long, hot summer and I was getting in some last minute gestating.

Hubby and I woke up, stretched, and prepared to start the day.  Having an assortment of errands to run, he dressed, gave me a quick kiss and belly-rub for luck, and let himself out the front door.

I’d slept nekkid to escape the summer heat and to avoid the hassle of trying to wrangle nightclothes over my huge tummy.  Don’t judge me if you’ve never been in that situation, alright?  Anyway, I heaved myself out of bed and waddled down the hall toward the bathroom, ready to take my morning shower.  On the way, it occurred to me that I had some pressing business that day— but what was it?  A doctor’s appointment?  The hair dresser? 

All alone in the house, I bypassed the bathroom and lumbered through the dining room and toward the kitchen where a calendar would answer my question.  As I stood there in the kitchen examining the calendar, a knock came at the front door.

With my computer-like mind, I analyzed the situation.  Obviously, Hubby had forgotten something that he’d returned to retrieve.  He’d only just left; I could still hear his car idling in the driveway, and since his keys were in the ignition,  he needed me to let him in.  The dilemma:  I was still nekkid, still extremely pregnant, and I couldn’t get to the bedroom where my robe was hanging without passing by the front door.  The solution:  What the hell, Hubby’s seen me without clothes and he knows I’m pregnant—I’ll just walk across the dining room and open the front door a crack, then continue to the bathroom for my morning shower.  Really, it couldn’t be simpler.

Three steps into the dining room I realized two eyes were staring in at me through the door window.  Two very large, very surprised eyes—cartoon eyes—that did not belong to my husband.  I stopped short.

Like a statue—a big, naked, pregnant statue—I peered back at the unfortunate friend who’d come to borrow some tools, a friend who’d had the bad timing to pull into our driveway mere moments after my hubby left, blissfully unaware of what awaited him on the other side of our door. 

Time stopped, as it tends to do when one is pregnant and naked in front of an unsuspecting visitor.  Then I raised an index finger and said through a forced smile, “Um, just a minute!”  Still staring with those cartoon eyes, he answered, “No problem. . .”

Well, I made it to the bedroom and put on my robe before returning to open the door.  I apologized, he apologized, and we agreed that no harm had been done.  What went through his mind at the moment when I walked out of the kitchen toward him, gravid and au naturel, will remain forever between him and his therapist.  But I’d dare say we both learned something that day.

  He learned to wait for a door to be answered without peeping in through the window.

And I learned that if you’re going to look back on something later and laugh about it, you’d might as well start laughing now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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