As I was eating my girl scout cookies, S messaged me. The baby came a month early via C-section and he weighs 5 pounds and is doing well. He's not even on oxygen. That is all I know. I cannot, cannot look at her pictures. Can-NOT.
S had her baby. Her baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. He's not my baby. Repeat.
I just made enchiladas for dinner. I was supposed to be in Cabo when this happened, or Disneyland, or Lava Hotsprings! Anywhere but standing in my kitchen making enchiladas. I just kept stirring with my heart-shaped wooden spoon in disbelief as to what I was doing. Why am I making enchiladas? He's not my baby.
Luckily, I'm all stocked up on Phish Food thanks to a birthday present from my Visiting Teacher, and we just happen to have a great friend who snuck over and delivered a pint along with some flowers. People are good. He's not my baby.