The birthday gift that keeps on giving.
This isn't anything new, but Potter's tongue owns me. I suspect that if it were capable of putting me on a leash and leading me around on my hands and knees, I wouldn't complain. Much.
Potter, being the sneaky wanker that he is, decided to torture me by declaring on my birthday that my primary gift was unable to travel and would be waiting for me at home, whenever I chose to abandon the peace and privacy of the beach house and return. I still say I would have lasted longer than I did if we didn't have an appointment with Mauvoisin on Thursday. Twenty-nine weeks and expanding. In any case, we arrived Wednesday evening, to ensure that I would be well rested and not receive a tongue lashing from the mediwitch for being overtired after traveling. A man can only sleep so much, after all. Potter insisted that my gift would look best in the sunlight, so once again I was forced to wait. I had no choice.
Thursday morning, I dragged myself from bed once I caught the scent of fried meat in the air. Potter had three pans filled with thick, wonderful, divinely perfect rashers of bacon sizzling on the stove, and Merlin knows how close I came to ravishing him right there in the kitchen. Precious needs to learn the insidious ways of nature sometime. When I happened to wander past the window, however, I was blinded and gracefully tripped over the dog. As it turns out, my delayed birthday gift was the guilty party: Potter paid out the arse to have a swimming pool built in the yard before we were set to return from Cannes. Of course, as I am the epitome of rugged manliness, I burst into tears of exceedingly manly joy. This couldn't have come at a better time, considering the heat wave that appears to have followed us here. I was tempted to make Potter ring Mauvoisin's office to cancel our appointment until I remembered and cursed the twenty-four hour cancellation requirement. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the patio while I sweated in the sun and stared at the water longingly.
I learned several things during our scheduled visit, as it turns out. One, My Son's head is in the ninetieth percentile for bratlings his age, and that I am rather lucky to not be pushing him out of my arse myself in eleven weeks. Mauvoisin told me that if I were a woman, she might recommend inducing labor a couple weeks early, actually. Secondly, according to the sonogram imaging, My Son is quite well-endowed. I had expected nothing less, naturally, but to see it in action is something else altogether. Finally, My Son is a connoisseur of comfort. He's got himself quite the cushioned little water sac, which explains why my girth is nearly what it was the day I gave birth to Our Pride and Joy. Mauvoisin claims that this excess fluid isn't terribly usual in pregnancies, overall, and likely won't effect anything but how large my midsection becomes. She probably took a litre of blood for testing, regardless. It isn't as if I was hoping to avoid stretch marks, anyway, though this does explain the swollen state of my ankles. I can endure for his benefit.
Potter, being the sneaky wanker that he is, decided to torture me by declaring on my birthday that my primary gift was unable to travel and would be waiting for me at home, whenever I chose to abandon the peace and privacy of the beach house and return. I still say I would have lasted longer than I did if we didn't have an appointment with Mauvoisin on Thursday. Twenty-nine weeks and expanding. In any case, we arrived Wednesday evening, to ensure that I would be well rested and not receive a tongue lashing from the mediwitch for being overtired after traveling. A man can only sleep so much, after all. Potter insisted that my gift would look best in the sunlight, so once again I was forced to wait. I had no choice.
Thursday morning, I dragged myself from bed once I caught the scent of fried meat in the air. Potter had three pans filled with thick, wonderful, divinely perfect rashers of bacon sizzling on the stove, and Merlin knows how close I came to ravishing him right there in the kitchen. Precious needs to learn the insidious ways of nature sometime. When I happened to wander past the window, however, I was blinded and gracefully tripped over the dog. As it turns out, my delayed birthday gift was the guilty party: Potter paid out the arse to have a swimming pool built in the yard before we were set to return from Cannes. Of course, as I am the epitome of rugged manliness, I burst into tears of exceedingly manly joy. This couldn't have come at a better time, considering the heat wave that appears to have followed us here. I was tempted to make Potter ring Mauvoisin's office to cancel our appointment until I remembered and cursed the twenty-four hour cancellation requirement. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the patio while I sweated in the sun and stared at the water longingly.
I learned several things during our scheduled visit, as it turns out. One, My Son's head is in the ninetieth percentile for bratlings his age, and that I am rather lucky to not be pushing him out of my arse myself in eleven weeks. Mauvoisin told me that if I were a woman, she might recommend inducing labor a couple weeks early, actually. Secondly, according to the sonogram imaging, My Son is quite well-endowed. I had expected nothing less, naturally, but to see it in action is something else altogether. Finally, My Son is a connoisseur of comfort. He's got himself quite the cushioned little water sac, which explains why my girth is nearly what it was the day I gave birth to Our Pride and Joy. Mauvoisin claims that this excess fluid isn't terribly usual in pregnancies, overall, and likely won't effect anything but how large my midsection becomes. She probably took a litre of blood for testing, regardless. It isn't as if I was hoping to avoid stretch marks, anyway, though this does explain the swollen state of my ankles. I can endure for his benefit.