My life as a St. Bernard

Posting has been sporadic the last month or so. It wasn't really "blogger's block" but more like "baby's block ." It was just hard to find anything else to post about since there was only one thing on my mind; like this constant hum in the back of my head that any time things went quiet would purr: i'mgonnabeamomma i'mgonnabeamomma i'mgonnabeamomma . . .

Strangely, pregnancy has turned me into a St. Bernard. You know, the working, rescue dog. Although my girth has yet to resemble that of this very large breed from the Swiss Alps, I can sniff out danger (or anything that is one day past its expiration date in the fridge).

And I drool.

Yes, drool. To date, this is perhaps the most surprising side-effect of growing a human. Blame it on my heightened allergies (if those darn Cottonwoods would just stop filling the air with fluff!), but I have to take breaks every few measures while singing to slurp up the excess saliva in my mouth.

Disgusting. I know.

And poor Mikey. While he used to wake up to a quietly slumbering beauty (okay, that may be a slight exaggeration), he now rises to find a slobbering pet in his bed with a puddle of spittle gracing its pillow.

My heightened sense of smell has gotten old pretty fast. I'll walk past a girl taking a nap on a bench a few yards away from a garbage can and hold my breath while thinking, How could anyone sleep next to that rank trash can? Then I gasp for air as soon as I pass. Mikey likes to think he has a nose to match mine (I'll have to make him post about sniffing out toxins), it is simply unmatched. And I think there must be some connection between the keen olfactory senses and putting my salivary glands in over drive. Although I'm not quite sure why I salivate at the smell of garbage . . .

All I ask from you over the next few months is that when I start sounding like Lou Holtz, you'll bear with me.