Every day the pooch grows larger.  My pants get tighter around the mid section.  The pooch grows rounder.    I start wearing more billowy shirts. I squeeze the pooch and cuddle it, thinking lovingly that this would be really cute if I were pregnant.

But seeing as I am most decidedly NOT pregnant, the pooch repulses me.  The pooch is NOT cute.  The pooch only brings me joy when I can squish and squeeze all the skin around it, thus causing Charming to decide to spend his evening elsewhere.

So here I am with a disgusting belly bulge.  A small, but ever expanding poochy-poo.   I have half heartedly tried situps.  Diet is a four letter word.  And when am I ever going to find the motivation time to exercise?

So, if I can’t get rid of the pooch there is only one other option for me.  I must make the pooch cute again.  It must be filled with child.

Yep, this is how seriously I take these kinds of decisions.  Can you imagine?  "Well, Baby Smith, we decided to bring you into this world because Mommy was resigned to the fact her tummy was going to be forever poochy and she wanted to feel cute about it."

I do want another baby though.  And if I am going to have more kids, I should do it while I am still young. 

And it would solve this pooch dilemma….