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My First-born? by
The TaleWagger
It's the frustration of being over 9 months pregnant that really get to you. 'The Bulge' has slowly, silently, significantly swollen. Sometimes hidden beneath a thick red cover, sometimes proudly exposed hoping that others might show interest. At the moment it has a reluctance to add the final ounces and leave its safe sanguine sanctuary. God! It seems to take forever and this is only the first. I am hoping that several more will follow fairly quickly! The frustration grows. Eager to get-it-right, I had regularly attended classes to acquire the skills that others seem to have so naturally. I learnt to create 'pretty things' to encourage others to admire my handiwork but they are not for my baby. I have met with others whose 'fruits of endeavour', have acheived fame and fortune, although I admit are not many. Well one actually and she only wanted to talk about how painless it had been; and how everyone adored her 'pride and joy'; and how they would soon be rolling out cakes on a production line. The frustration shows. I walk around the town, in and out of shops, gazing at other people's pride-and-joy arrogantly on display in their multi-coloured covers and jackets. Ah! One day soon perhaps, but not today. The frustration glows. My face burns with envy. You know, it's not all goodness and light, being 'heavy with book'.
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