Bringing up baby

Those you who’ve been counting the months since I said that I was pregnant, will no doubt be wondering how come I haven’t yet given birth. Is this the longest pregnancy in history? The truth is – I have. And both mother and baby are doing well.

The reason for my reluctance to spread the news until now is that had I done so at the time, anyone who knows me and are following this blog, might start to suspect the truth. For the same reason I’ll hold back the exact date of birth, the sex and the name of my darling child, who, a few minutes from now will be demanding a breast full of milk.

I don’t know how other new mums feel, but attaching my baby to my breast, gives me a weird kid of euphoria, and is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had, in-spite of the sore nipples.

I know…..again

Today, for the first time I’ve found a quiet corner of the foyer on the ground floor of the office block. It’s tastefully decorated with large water-colours on the walls, leather chairs and solid oak tables. There’s calming background music, soft lighting and the air smells vaguely, attractively sweet. I wonder how I’ve never noticed this place before.

Over the past few months I’ve been less and less to the local coffee houses and bars. I don’t really know why. Or perhaps I do. I was a different person, no midriff bump to tell the world that I’d been fucking without the use of a prophylactic. Is that the first thing that comes into peoples mind whenever they see a woman carrying a baby gut? Do they instantly have an image of her on her back having the beginnings of a baby squirted into her?

Thinking back I can probably recall the very instant his life giving semen started its fateful journey. It was a Sunday morning after he’d hauled himself out of bed to visit the bathroom. I’d vaguely heard the pissing sound as the deluge hit the water.

Then he’d crawled back into bed, his big hands snaking around my body to cup my left breast, before sliding down over my hip and around to nestle in the soft curls of my pubic hair; searching for the starter button and finding it already slightly erect. And that was the beginning. That was generally how it always started on Sunday mornings.

Well…. since then my world has been well and truly rocked. Here I am several months later, less able to see my feet, than I was the last time I opened up my lap-top, with the intention of communicating with those few of you who are still interested in what has happened and is happening in my little life.

I’m not so much blooming as ballooning. I’m as round as a barrel (probably not strictly true, but that’s how I feel). My waist is daily disappearing; my ass is expanding into next week; I’m starting to waddle like a duck and as for my breasts…… lets not go there. Of course he likes the new cup size, even though I was never small to start with. Men!

It seems like an age since I watched with bated breath as the little blue line appeared on the pregnancy test stick, confirming that I was at long last in the club. I’d wanted this baby so badly. And don’t get me wrong, I still want it – him? her? But I want it to be here. Now. Today.

Some lucky women I’m told, enjoy the nine months it takes to incubate the egg into a fully functioning independent life-form. For me, so-far, it’s been almost day to day vomiting and discomfort. And the daily slog into the city isn’t helpful or comfortable. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I start maternity leave.

Everyone says that it’s the best time of a woman’s life, like having Christmas every day.

Each morning he kisses my bump and almost as an afterthought remembers that I still have lips. He’s already the proud doting daddy.

He went out a bought a pile of books; Baby Names; Bringing up Baby;  Baby Tips for Dads; The Expectant Dad’s Survival Guide etc, etc….. There’s a trend forming. Who’s having this baby anyway?

Of course he says that he doesn’t mind what it is. But I know he really wants a son. And I’d love to oblige, even though there’s a little selfish part of me hoping the little, screaming bundle arrives with a sweet little vagina between her legs.

We still make love, more at my insistence (if you can call it that); a constant desire for food in the shape of soft iced-cream, asparagus and avocado isn’t all I have a craving for. I’ve never felt so overwhelmingly horny. I’d happily bend over the sofa or kneel on the edge of the bed twice or three times a day, if he was home. Of course he dutifully obliges, but he’s always so… so God-damned careful, loving and gentle, it makes me want to fucking scream.
But the orgasms… God! They don’t just make me go weak at the knees, they actually turn my bones to water, and make the atomic bomb go off in my brain. Some of you ladies will know what I mean.

There is of course the other side of the news I divulged last October – my mother’s cancer diagnosis.

For her the last five months have brought hospital visits, chemo, radiotherapy, nausea, dizziness, sickness, hair-loss and bloating, (sounds familiar – apart from the hair loss). It’s hard to watch someone you love, who was so alive and vibrant at the start of the year, slowly transform into a listless wraith, staring into space, lost in her own diminishing world.

Even so, she tries very hard to be cheerful, which kind of makes it harder for those of us who love her.

So now you have my letter of excuse. I promise it won’t be long before I take up the reigns of the story again. Now, where were we………..?


An Italian Odyssey

Back in the bar again, but I wont bother to talk about who is, or isn’t here. Not today. Because….I HAVE NEWS.
My husband told me last Monday that he has the opportunity to go and work in Italy for a few weeks, and that he’d like me go with him – if I can get some time off.
A chance too good to miss; but could I sell it to the powers that be?
Well…. I have, and…… we’re off on the eighteenth.

Some of you might recall that I mentioned a while back, that I spent part of my year between school and university in Italy; however, what I didn’t say, was that it was while I was there that I met the man destined to be my first. Yes, the man who took my virginity and stole my heart.

So, while I’m there this time, I’ve decided it will be a good place and time to recount the tale, and tell all about what was arguably the happiest, and possibly the darkest time of my life.

Needless to say, I’m very, very excited.

A soggy day

Shocked….. We are coming out???!!! Right result? Wrong decision? Who knows? But I do know that someone somewhere is making a profit. The same people who would have made a profit if the vote had gone the other way.
Which way did I vote? You first………..



A view through a smoky windowI’m at home. There’s thunder rumbling, the deluge is a mix of soft hail and chubby rain drops.

Is it weird that I like to watch the jagged forks of lightening as they split the gloomy grey sky? I’d love to know where they come to earth, bringing flames and destruction and terror. I want to be standing a foot away and witness it, feeling the earth tremble under my feet, breathing in the sweet aroma of fresh, transient ozone.

I’ve dusted and hovered the whole house; chopped the vegetables; diced and browned the meat and tipped the whole lot into a slow-cooker. The cake is in the oven and will be ready when he comes back from the shop. Job done.

Now I am sitting on the bay window seat in the den, staring into the distance; my mind wondering aimlessly, while my fingers tap blindly at the keys of my laptop. In a minute I’ll look down and read what they’ve written. It happens sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly disenfranchised from my life.

I know…. I should be happy. What have I got to be miserable about? I am happy – most of the time. It’s in my nature to be so. He says that I can find the absurd in almost anything.

But there are days like these, mere moments really, when I feel as if I’m drifting in the emptiness of an endless void; alone in the dark, without something solid to grab on to.

In my nostrils there’s the reek of wet dog and soggy pussy. The man took the hound out walking, and they both came back looking like a pair of drowned rats. The pussy, and I am not referring to my own, although it is perhaps a little soggy since we played lets-make-a-baby at around eight this morning, (though strangely I didn’t cum this time), is sitting near my feet staring out of the window, probably wondering where her sister is. She’s been missing for nearly a week.

It’s Christian’s birthday today. I met him form lunch yesterday and gave him his present. He turned up at the restaurant with Inga in tow. They have a very special relationship now, like his and mine, and I know she also sleeps with him sometimes when she is in town. I can’t help but imagine them curled up together. Do they spoon? The mental image amuses me; she, who has been penetrated only twice by a men’s penis (different men that is. How man times her husband screwed her, I haven’t a clue); and he, who has never penetrated a vagina.

Inga was as beautiful and as alluring as ever. Floating across the floor, as if she was walking on a tightrope made of fine gossamer, her hips swaying slightly, unintentionally provocative.  She is aware, but doesn’t care, that as she saunters by all eyes are drawn to her, men and women, in lust and envy.

We exchanged the customary cheek kisses. In her clear blue eyes I read the details of our shared secret. She is like a book…. open to me now.

Oops…there goes the bell. The cake is ready. I wonder if there is a bun in my oven. I hope so. That would make him very happy.