Dear sprog,
Holy fucking shit. I’m up the duff. You’re in there. You may only be the size of a grain of arborio rice (mmm, risotto), but already your presence means:
1. I am well and truly backed up. Even farting takes hours, and this from a woman is known around these parts for romantic gestures such as preparing to fart and holding your father’s head under the covers then laughing hysterically as he tries not to gag on her toxic output. Anyhoo, what I wouldn’t give for a decent sesh on the toilet. Gone are the days and you are only a bunch of cells.
2. MY BOOBS. What the hell happened to my boobs? I woke up this morning, only one day after taking a pregnancy test and JESUS, SWEET JESUS, who put those things there? So much for that breast reduction all those years ago. These mamas got minds o’ their own. They ache, they throb, they react and get all tingly at inappropriate moments. Rest assured they are still keeping your father happy. You can get grossed out about that when you’re a teenager.
3. What is with the weeing? Only five weeks in there, you, and I have already worn through the carpet in the hallway at work trekking to the loo every 30 seconds.
4. Everything makes me want to cry. Everything. This morning it was the bunnies in the fields dancing among the bright pink foxgloves, as Arcade Fire’s ‘Neon Bible’ roared in my ears. This afternoon, as I walked along in among the chatter and twitter and beeping horns of peak hour Leeds, it was the thought that the very first voice you will ever hear, my little, eeny-weeny bean, will be mine, and your father’s. And aint that somethin’.
