Hi Tummy Bug,
Alien invader of my uterus, you apple-seed of chaos.
You weren’t supposed to happen yet.
You were supposed to come when I could bake you warm cookies in my own oven, spice ones, chocolate ones, puffy jam filled ones that send warm buttery calories to my mother-hips and your child-cheeks.
You were supposed to come when I could jump into puddles with you, splashing raindrops into our mis-matched socks, while we went to feed the silly chickens.
You were supposed to come when we could send all trumpets blaring and drums beating, unfurl the yay flags and throw enviroment harming confetti in the air because we were so damn PROUD that you were entering the world and we weren’t afraid to show it.
But by either fate, chance, accident or design you are here now.
While I’m still meant to be outlining my essay on the philosophy of Marcus. While there are still half empty burbon bottles on our dusty warehouse wardrobe and we are debating the merits of cheap mince vs. processed sausages most week nights.
While going to the movies is still a luxury fit for much jubilation and my nicest clothes, while I’m writing this on dial-up internet because broadband is beyond our price-range this month and while I still have to look sheepish about my swelling breasts and slowly growing tummy.
So why am I so damn HAPPY?