Eating For Two

I'm so nervous for the Duchess, I've been noshing on her behalf.  An extra bite of bagel. A slice of nice coffee cake.  A double scoop of Abe & Moshe's Toffee Tonnage.  No wonder the scale's creeping up.  I'm eating for two.  That's the kind of gal I am. When I worry, I go all out. I'm not just worried about my own people.  I'm worried about Kate's mishpocha, too.  What they must be going through!  I can just hear the phone messages Kate's ignoring:  "Hello, dear, it's Mummy.  Any contractions?  Can we move this thing along?  All the attention.  It's a bit tiresome, don't you think?  Kiss kiss!"  "Hi!  It's Queen Liz.  What up with my royal great grandbaby?  How much longer must I wait?  It's terribly unbecoming.  I command you to speed it up.  Ta!"  All the silly, unsolicited advice Kate must be getting. "Schlep, Duchess, schlep! Schlep around the palace.  Schlepping always gets labor started." "Have some chicken soup, Duchess.  It couldn't hurt."  "Have some royal sex. Sex always brings on labor."  Kate and the SJG, we have so much in common.  Before the royal eldest was born, I, too, had millions dying to know when I was ready to pop.  I'd step outside the royal townhouse and find myself surrounded by paparazzi as I waddled toward the garage.  I was not amused.  "Please, no more photos.  I look like a beached whale."  Kate, on the other hand, looks remarkably glamorous and fetching.  She's camera-ready at all times.  Me?  Not so much.  Still, I feel for her.  I do.  Which is why I'm eating for two.  So, please, Kate, be a love and hurry it up.  I can barely zip my jeans.