I have four arms, four legs and forty fingers and toes. And I have two hearts, two blood types, and two brains. The latter a valid reason, I protest, for my constant state of indecision. No I don’t want dinner. I will puke if I eat. That smells terrible. Cook it away from me. Yes. Now I want some. And I want yours too. Give it to me. No questions. Thanks. My gratitude notably lacking luster as I steal and swallow my (poor, poor) husband’s dinner without shame, and leave only the silence of his lingering hunger. I feel the heaviness of his defeat making a depression in the seat next to mine. For although my husband is known to put on lawyer-like exhibitions of evidence as naturally as his favorite jeans, the man is smart enough to not put a visibly pregnant woman on the stand. Where she will inevitably be overcome with inexplicable emotion and win the jury with her Madonna tears. No. He can pick his fights wisely with our 2-year old, but with his already-waddling wife, there are #nofightsworthwinning.

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