The birth of my children.

WHAT on earth was I thinking? I can't do this. This is way too much! You are robbing me of my waistline, youthful lust for adventure, time, money. Forget about a good night’s sleep. You are a parasite that has disapproved of every bite I have eaten in the last 42 weeks.

My guts have grown and shifted to accommodate you. My spine is distorted, my ribs are pushed out. We won’t even mention the burning and biting of the hemorrhoids that you discarded when you decided to remodel the living womb.

Finally, you get here, and you are all pink and gross. You look like the color of old bubble gum. You’re wiggly and wrinkly and screaming at the top of your lungs. They wrap you up and whisk you away but who is going to clean up the mess you left behind. I hope you don’t think you are getting your security deposit back.