Tuesday, June 21, 2011

She's having her fifth.

Child, that is. My best friend from high school. The one who doesn't even have custody of her oldest child. The one who will have 4 children ages 4 and under. The one who throws the older ones off on her mom every chance she gets. The one who does good to just take care of herself. I spent snack time at vbs feeding a 2-year-old, holding/feeding a 5-month-old, and trying to eat my spaghetti, surrounded by women talking about pregnancy and babies and planning for the next baby like I plan for my next day off. Honestly, I made it fine feeding the three of us, and I was glad for the distraction it created so I didn't feel like I had to participate in the conversation.
And this, my friends, is what happens when I start thinking I'm in a better place.* And when I try to cut down on soft drinks and snacks, because I stepped on the scale and it said, "You are disgustingly fat, please get off!"

*Which, I suppose I AM in a somewhat better place. I didn't have to bite my lip and run away from the lady who told me about my friend. And while I thought I might cry on the way home, I'm more just disappointed.

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