“I’M IN MY PRE-PREGNANCY JEANS!!!!” I shrieked excitedly from the upstairs landing, thinking perhaps my announcement could be heard around the world.
I had no idea that at that moment, Parker was walking down the stairs. The manic, celebratory wail must have been a shock to his little system because the poor little guy fell on his butt and slid all the way down to the wood floor below and then laid there, stunned.
I was undeterred.
I pranced downstairs (hoping the top of my butt didn’t fall out of the top of the jeans at the same time) to flaunt my stuff.
My husband hadn’t even turned around at the sink while washing dishes.
Apparently, I was the only one heart-attack excited about this news.
Of course, I did stop for a moment to pick Parker up, twirl him around, and pat his head reassuringly.
Never mind that I literally, physically had to stuff the remaining top of my butt into the damn jeans, but they were zipped and buttoned and I could walk in them.
It was success.
It was the sweetest success I’ve had in years. I am high. Still.