Period: or The End

Swennyway. Not so much with the proto-girl just yet. Mind you, dear Mother-in-Law did say ten months, did she not? I mean, her maths is pretty dodgy, but she has had quite a few children, not to mention some nursing training. She does know about the forty weeks, doesn't she? I suppose her 'Good News on the Second of March' promise is strictly speaking yet to be broken.

GOD GOD GOD I AM SICK OF WAITING. Perhaps we should be grateful, as we hurtle ever closer to our own mortality, for anything capable of making time crawl. Because crawl it does. Fourteen days (except really more like nineteen or sometimes thirty) and then an ovulation. And then the world's slowest fortnight (slower with every passing cycle) while we wait and watch your nipples --- harbingers of false hope --- FAR TOO CLOSELY.

And there are heavily pregnant women everywhere. And we see them and then look at each other and that weird mind-reading thing happens and we have to hold hands or look at the ground. Or both.

I'm not mad at your ovaries or anything. I totally still blame my grandmother. Your mother might be psychic, but Granny has a hotline to the pre-Vatican-II Wrathful God Of All. (He might have been made redundant, but that doesn't mean he's not still around. He pops out of his assisted-care villa in the sky and takes over from Happy-Clappy New-Millenium Gentle Father whenever he's called upon by the kinds of little old women who sometimes go to the Greek Orthodox Church as a personal protest against the Vernacular Mass. My Granny doesn't. But she probably would if she'd thought of it.)

And every month might make me closer to my own Use By Date, but it also makes us that much closer to buying a little flat. And each month I accrue another 1.6 (recurring) days of annual leave to spend with you when we really do have a little Blessed Burden of our own.

I love you gigantically. It's so big that even my (if I do say so myself, enormous) heart is stretched and heavy.

My head is swimming with it.