“Oh, you poor bugger!” says Stacy, the checkout lady, her commiseration accompanied by a weird part chuckle, half chortle, semi-snort.
I offer an expression that encourages Stacy to just hurry the f*ck up and scan my 600 grams of Packham pears and three bottles of eucalyptus disinfectant, so I can get the hell out of here and off my pork roast sized, swollen feet.
I rub my ridiculous giant belly covered in its highly flammable, but oh-so-stretchy fabric, (thank you Millers) and think about the two tiny humans I’m growing.
Who would have thought?
Who would have dared hope?
It’s a familiar story. You do your best in your twenties NOT to be pregnant, and then when you hit your thirties, all you want to do is breed. When the two lines on the pregnancy test don’t appear after the first month of intentional mating, you shrug it off and figure it’ll happen next month, (plus next month will deliver a Scorpio baby which will fit perfectly with a Taurus/Cancer parenting combo).
But you don’t get your Scorpio baby, or Sagittarius, you don’t even get a Capricorn baby and there are ninety million Capricorn babies.
But Father Time can’t be hurried and so after three years, so many tests and two heartbreaking miscarriages, he bestows the gift of a daughter. She looks like her gorgeous dad, but I can tell she has my FOMO, which explains why she is awake more than she is not. She is divine.