Top o' the Muffin to Ya

The boy is pointing at his mother, “Look mommy, look!”

I look down at my shirt – did I dribble coffee, perhaps some milk from my breakfast cereal? I must be starting to lose some sensitivity around the mouth area lately, as evidenced by my more frequent need to launder my own clothes. Thanks, old age.

Then I realize that he’s pointing a bit further down.

“Muffin Top!” he says, laughing. And he didn't mean this:




Okay, who’s the smarty-pants who decided to expand my son’s vocabulary to use such rude language in describing his beloved mother? I suppose that would be me. I think during my discussions with his father about the benefits of the gym, that term came up, which to big ears required further definition. To be used against me in future.

I won't share with you a pictorial presentation of the aforementioned offending image. After all, it can't be pretty after one month of NOT going to the gym, one month of Christmas food, ski vacation food...you get the picture. Honestly, I kid you not, I would have been going to the gym regularly if it hadn't been for this vicious "pain in the respiratory arse" (which is STILL lingering, going to the doctor for some stronger drugs today).

I hauled myself to the gym last night for my favourite class. And although I did end up gasping mid-way through (wheezing, snorting, lungs and belly grasping for oxygen to increase the future burpage-factor to high), I did this as discreetly as possible. Because in case we do decide to go somewhere warm for a winter holiday, this is what I'd like to have:



One can dream.