Type B Keeps a Secret

I am an excellent secret keeper. Your deepest, darkest, ugliest thoughts? Tell me. I won't breathe a word.

Repeating secrets never even crosses my mind.  There's never a temptation.  It's just..wrong.

..Except with Brandon.  I'll blab to him unless you tell me not to.  The good news is that he really doesn't care.  At all.

Also, sometimes my Type B-ness will allow me to actually forget secrets, which is even better. ((points to head)) Steel trap.

There's only one caveat to my abilities: Good secrets.  Fun ones.. like upcoming surprise birthday parties, impending engagements - especially when I know the date when someone will propose, and pregnancies.

Do me a favor: Please, please don't tell me about this stuff.

Oh, I won't blab. I'll just toss and turn and squirm until I can. It will be excruciating.

When something great is on the horizon and I'm the only one who knows about it, strange things begin to happen, like with one I've been keeping recently:

I'll tell a complete stranger at Gymboree. Them: "Harper's toenails are painted!" Me: "Yes, they are. BLAB PERSONAL INFORMATION." ((strange look from stranger))

I'll chat about it to no end with Harper, but she'll mutter a little nonsense and keep cruising: "bebe, bebe.. i wuuuv bebes. thankyou. welcome. 123456789 kitty cat meow car honk. c'mon, Momma! beach ocean!"

It'll be the very first thing I talk about with Brandon in the morning, and the very last thing we talk about each night.  Poor guy. Me: "Good morning! What if..BLAB!?" Him: "Yaawn."

I'll break my rule and burden my friend Tiffany with the information, via text, so I'm not the only one who has to keep it. Me: "Blabbity blabbity blabbity. The line is crooked! What the heck? Does that count?"

I'll ask our anesthesiologist friend, Indy, mysteriously leading questions about his December schedule.  I might even allude to taking a toddler-friendly vacation as to pinpoint his exact whereabouts on or about December 13th. Cruel from every angle.

I'll Freudian slip it in a blog post & almost have a heart attack when my friend Hannah royally busts me - at a mere 3 weeks into keeping the secret - via the comments section.

I'll feel nauseous, at least.  Gag, at random. Barf, at worst.

I'll neglect permanent features on my blog (I swear, I didn't just FORGET to write them), like Top of the Muffin, because I'm too freaking tired from this secret to exercise, much less blog about it, and Cupcake of the Week, because I don't know what would happen if I looked at a cupcake right now, much less try to eat it then write about it. It would not be pretty.

Ultimately, I've discovered that I can only keep a great secret for about 13 weeks, which works out well:

Baby 2 is looking at you :)