One of the problems with a pregnancy, pumpkin, is that its toll is primarily exacted on only one half of the two people involved.
Sure, I'm having issues with worrying about making sure that I'm going to make enough money to keep you in trainsets and overalls, but it's your mum who has to lump you around for nine months and put up with all the other assorted ickiness that is being pregnant.
It's tough for me to work out how to help.
There are, of course, these devices known as empathy bellies, but to my mind they conjure up images of men who were entirely TOO involved in the pregnancy. I mean, really, how would ME lugging a pumpkin around help your mum anyway?
So I'm left with the standbys. I rub cocoa butter on her belly. I lay my hand there to feel you jumping about like you're a mexican jumping bean (whose movement, incidentally, is caused by the larvae of a moth that hatches inside the bean). I rub her giant feet, and tell her she's beautiful.
Beyond that, pumpkin, I'm out of ideas, but I wish for just one day I could hold you myself and carry you round, to give her a day off from feeling swollen and achey and heavy and cumbersome.
Touching her belly and feeling you move through her skin, I want to reach inside and touch you, to hold you in my arms so she can get some sleep.
Love you.
1 comment:
That was beautiful.
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