“
Marlboro Man had to spend the rest of Thanksgiving weekend weaning the calves that had been born the previous spring, and since I was clearly feeling better, I no longer had a get-out-of-jail (or sleep-in-till-nine) card to use. He woke me up that Saturday morning by poking my ribs with his index finger.
A groan was all I could manage. I pulled the covers over my head.
“Time to make the doughnuts,” he said, peeling back the covers.
I blinked my eyes. The room was still dark. The world was still dark. It wasn’t time for me to get up yet. “Doughnuts…huh?” I groaned, trying to lie as still as I could so Marlboro Man would forget I was there. “I don’t know how.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” he said, lying down next to me. Make the doughnuts? What? Where was I? Who was I? I was disoriented. Confused.
“C’mon,” he said. “Come wean calves with me.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him. My strapping husband was fully clothed, wearing Wranglers and a lightly starched blue plaid shirt. He was rubbing my slightly chubby belly, something I’d gotten used to in the previous few weeks. He liked touching my belly.
“I can’t,” I said, sounding wimpy. “I’m…I’m pregnant.” I was pulling out all the stops.
“Yep, I know,” he said, his gentle rub turning back into a poke again.
I writhed and wriggled and squealed, then finally relented, getting dressed and heading out the door with my strapping cowboy.
”
”