A Labour of Love

For nine months or 40+ or - weeks, your belly blossomed beautifully to your due date. It was the only time in your life when your obstetrician or midwife applauded your weight gain. If you were lucky, you survived only small bouts of nausea and morning sickness, but then developed a ferocious appetite which made you believe you were really eating for two when the excuse suited you. You had that "glow" which attracted all kinds of energy, attention, flattery and questions from strangers. Your bosom grew to the delight of your partner and your larger behind only meant that you became bootylicious. Your complexion was clear, your nails grew like weed and your hair had never known such verve and volume. Inside, your little miracle grew from the size to of a pea to a football and as it kicked, stretched, hicupped and moved non-stop, unimaginable love poured into every cell of your body with each movement. Surely, you were on the longest emotional rollercoaster ride of your life and perhaps it was the only time when you could blame all of your outbursts, irrationalities, crying sessions and absent-mindedness on the hormones. It's true, we believe you. And, right at the end when your feet grew and you couldn't sleep a wink at night and you just wanted to pop already, this labour of love ended with the greatest and most perfect tiny new life.