A child. In fact, 3 or more.
I can’t wait to be pregnant. I can’t wait to confidently show off my belly with pretty maternity clothes (versus consciously hiding the unsightly womb-protecting pouch of lipids with breath-holding techniques). And to know I wouldn’t ever be physically lonely for the next 9 months.
Some pregnant women look so good. Some women look so good pregnant. I wonder whether I’ll ever be one of those who look wonderfully radiant when pregnant, or whether it will appear that yeast has had its effect on my nose and have bloated calves and feet upon the life-harbouring experience.
I can’t wait to redeem my maternity leave too. I’m sure I’ll be guaranteed a good maternity package in view of my future teaching career most likely being in the hands of the civil service. And we know that the Government is pressured to set an example after all the talk about encouraging (re)productive sex.
Pak Lah’s political legitimacy with his clean sweep in the elections, China and the dead Hamas leader Yassin don’t interest me as much as the Mama-and-Papa-leave and EM3 debate that have recently been the issues of active debate in the papers.
Yes, as “aunty” as Audrey the stage manager may conclude derogatorily about me, I am content with my auntiness – my premature-to-many maternal instinct, household-expenditure budgeting skills, indifference to many youthful indulgences and in general, being too unexcited and level-headed for an Audrey’s perception of a kid.
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