I am not a glowing, pregnant goddess.
I am not rubbing my perfectly rounded belly through some flowing, lacey dress.
I am not cuddled up in bed with my other children, laughing joyfully and looking at them lovingly as they caress the growing bump.
I am not giddy with anticipation about the arrival of my perfect, sweet newborn.
I am a giant whale who has escaped the ocean and come to eat all of the hot chips in the land.
I am wearing anything fifty times the size of me. I don’t care if it’s the same shirt I wore yesterday or has the babies snot on it I’m comfortable, okay.
I am doubled over the toilet heaving, first thing in the morning and last thing at night – my sweet song of love for my family.
I know the beautiful blood bath of labour. And the stinky, fart-joke making, poop machine that sweet newborn one day grows into.
Pregnancy is beautiful.
On someone else.