A few weeks ago I woke up to find that I was cuddling with a pregnant cat. I could feel the little unborn kittens squirming around (each one seemed about the size of half a hot dog). And I thought it was so cool.
That feeling does not extend to human unborn.
I poked it. The belly. I didn't give it a good solid grope. I poked it. Tip of the finger. That was plenty. I was told after that it was a foot. I poked at a foot. Through the thin layer of another person. Creepy.
At Sara's request, I'd just savoured a bottle of Reisling. She didn't exactly request that I drink a bottle (rather than a couple of glasses) but it was a tasty bottle. I don't usually like reisling - too sweet - but it was what Sara said she would be drinking on a lovely summer night if she could - so I did. It was perky.
I've been drinking a little bit so I probably wouldn't make much sense if I spell out the details of our converation up until the point I poked the belly. Somehow we ended up talking about death and dying and ghosts and whether we were afraid of dying and our experiences with dying people and how most marriages split up with the death of a child. Morbid, I know. I also freely admit that one of the reasons I'm reluctant to have kids is the possibility that they might die and I would be inconsolable. I decided ong ago that if I have kids I want two, the second as a back-up, in case one of them dies. Morbid, I know.
It makes some amount of sense to be thinking about mortality in the face of new life. Which is, in effect, your replacement. Which makes me sad. That's all for now.
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