My sons father is a loser.
At 9.45pm, the other woman was transported to Somerset Hospital. My daughter and I remained in the waiting room. She woke up to nurse, and I opened my breast to feed her, with tears in my eyes. The pain had progressed to the point where I could no longer stand or sit upright. And of course, as she suckled, my womb contracted. I was sincerely convinced that I was going to die.
It’s been seven months of hoping, tracking, timing, taking my temperature, consultations with my doctors, medication that makes me feel sick and slightly loopy, weight gain despite healthier eating habits, and the possibility that I may have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). This is not good news.
A piece by Conita Adams
“Haai, you know, he married her with two kids and she looked so lekker, now look at her… poor Riyaahd”.
Ike, pung, Miagi, Juvi, Koppe, Boere, miley.
With conviction, I announced earlier this year that I would also no longer swear, and that I would only use my mouth for good. I guess whether the latter is true is a tale for my husband to tell. As for swearing, my attempt was the equivalent of a proper Christmas trifle… a fruitless endevour.
My heart stopped. I was frozen. I wanted to catch him in the act, probably on the phone with someone who was gorgeous and thin. I haven’t even done my eyebrows this month.
(So boring, I can hear the cricketers chirping me)