I don't think you're ready for this jelly

I've went into some extended detail about the sodden mass that is my stomach skin. N has recently shared his own thoughts on the matter.

The time: Morning, early, still mostly dark outside

The mood: Depressed, as have to go to work. Hate work. Hate still-dark morning. Hate mornings, period. Damn mornings and work, separating me from my beloved children, bed, sweatpants, books, and hermit-like tendencies. Fuck.

The place: My closet. Which, I might add, is exceedingly cleaned up by anyone's standards, but exceptionally so for my own.

Extenuating circumstances: I'm still mostly naked, can't decide what to wear to the blasted office, other than what I already have on, i.e. my bra, panties, and trouser socks. Fuck.

Laws broken: N, trespassing in my closet with complete and utter disregard for my morning grouchiness, state of undress and slower mental processes.

Conversation ensuing:

N (all of a sudden, the kid's patting my stomach, whyyyy?): "Whooo! Look at this, it just moves around. All around! Everywhere! This is soooooo Jiggly. It is the Jiggliest. Yes, the Jiggliest stomach I have ever seen! You are jiggly, mama!" This is said with a vast amount of cheerfulness that only a preschooler can muster in the a.m., and we all know that the word jiggly rarely inspires reciprocal cheerfulness in a grown woman.

Me (thinking "fuck", speaking, however, gently but firmly): "Stop it. It's best to not grab other people's stomach skin unless you ask them first. That's not appropriate to just grab people. Are you supposed to be in here? Is your breakfast finished?" (Thereby attempting to employ oft-utilized parenting technique of distraction)

N: That tummy is the best, mama. How did you get it to be so jiggly?

Me: N! Out! Breakfast! Now!

N: I looooove your Jiggly tummy, mom. It is great!

Me (thinking fuck Fuck FUCK!): Thank you very much, sweetheart. Now. get. OUT. this. instant.