Galactophorous

“Children are the anchor that hold a mother’s heart,” said one of those annoying yummy mummies, who effortlessly pop babies out of a body that somehow retains its pelvic floor.  No blooming maternity for me.  A spot filled visage appears in the mirror as I push swollen feet into well-worn moccasins.  Then I start leaking - I am horrified.

“Your milk’s arrived,” a helpful colleague announces.

I consider the bump stretching my skin into a tight drum.  I feel like a cow, lactiferous.  I imagine going back to that lazy Sunday morning seven months ago and pleading a headache.