I can prove that god exists.
I use the lower case deliberately, because The Wonder That Is My Blog does not discriminate based on religion. Whether you worship God, the Great Mystery, or Ramrod the Holy Toaster, you are welcome here. So I'm going to use the lower case, and feel free to insert whatever deity-licious name you'd like.
Anyway. There are two episodes in my past that are useful in the whole proof-of-god's-existence thing. The first is the birth of my twins. See, the whole pregnancy with son thing was pretty much an exercise in excrutiating discomfort punctuated with short periods of sleep. I was on bed rest for about two months in my inlaws' living room. And I love my inlaws. They love me. But I think that by the end, they were as happy to have my whale-sized arse off their couch as I was.
Actually, I was bigger than whale-sized. I had this red sweater, and I was so big that you could have seen me from space. If there are any astronauts reading my blog, I was the little red blob on North America. It wasn't a hot air balloon.
So one day I said to myself, "Self, I'd like to have more kids. I hate being pregnant, but they're worth it. Although I wish I could just skip the pregnancy thing and just have the kids. Oh, and I think I'll name my toaster Ramrod, because it seems strangely fitting."
And less than a month later, I was pregnant with twins. I can just see god sitting up there, giggling at my expense. "Well, if she wants babies but doesn't like to be pregnant, I'll send her TWO AT ONCE! She'll have to learn to hold a book with her feet while she feeds them, and that will be funny. Oh, and the toast is done."
The other proof that I have that god exists and really needs to come to one of my dinner parties because he has a great sense of humor comes from when Slayer and I got engaged. Because we did the whole "will you marry me?" "hell yes!" thing, and then we got out the bubbly and toasted each other with glasses that Slayer had purchased especially for this purpose. Unfortunately, I was so giddy that I knocked my glass over and completely obliterated it.
Later, Slayer was washing our one remaining champagne glass, and he looked at me and said, "Well, at least we have ONE glass left," because we really haven't matured past the Pigtail Pulling Syndrome in kindergarten: you know, where you pull the pigtails of the girl you like? So he starts ribbing me about being a klutz when the bottom just fell off his glass, PLINK. In midair.
That Ramrod. He's such a kidder.
P.S. If you are one of those people who have come here after searching for a "freaky mom," I think you may be in the wrong place. I'm not THAT kind of freaky. I'm the kind of freaky that thinks Ramrod the Holy Toaster is freaking hilarious.