What Fatty really wanted this morning was a perfectly ripe banana. But none were to be found. So she ate a banana that would have been vastly improved by another 24 hours.
Fatty knew that she had to feed herself something with carbs (she was, after all, growing a baby) but everything she looked at made her a bit queasy. No to cereal. No to toast. No to last night's leftovers. So Fatty ate a corndog... for breakfast.
Please don't tell Fatty's doctor. He would be very disappointed. He would threaten Fatty with a huge baby. He wouldn't be so kind as to move Fatty's due date up. Only threats.
This, by the way, is what I found almost an hour after I got out of bed this morning. The dog had crawled up to Jon's pillow (thank God it wasn't mine, because I do believe that's drool) and fallen asleep. Pardon me, Henry, for interrupting your beauty rest.