I
place my hand on my stomach. I find myself doing this more and more, much to
Adam’s amusement. He’s always said I was going to wind up being that person who
rubs her pregnant belly, much as I deride the mothers who I see doing it. I
always said that wouldn’t happen. As with most things, I’ve been proven to be
full of shit. But I’m not really rubbing and I’m not feeling happily complacent
the way most of these women seem to be. It’s more of an odd clash without
conflict, reassurance without fulfillment. It’s a coming-together of sorts, but
of what sorts I have yet to determine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment