Twisted Ovaries

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman

A package arrived from my mother, wrapped in a bright blue bubble-wrapped envelope. It sits on our couch, because I'm afraid to open it. I worry that my mother (are you here, Mom? Did you find this site, too?), who has had a sensitivity bypass, has done something incredibly thoughtless like send pictures of my pregnant sister. Or maybe she's made copies of the ultrasound of THE BABY and sent those, since all words from my mother these days have been about THE BABY. Or at least they were-we haven't spoken in three months now, and I wonder if that's ok with all of us.

I thought about just marking it "Return to Sender" and popping it back in the post, but then thought maybe there was word of my grandmother in there, or perhaps something from my non-existent childhood lurking behind the folds. Regardless, I was terrified that something would arrive and something has, I am filled with horror at my hormone-pumped self being confronted with THE BABY. Aidan is going to be my customs security agent and will open it and check it for info about THE BABY later, as well as for other contraband like what a horrible person I am, how I am not part of the family, etc. The poison pen lives.

The package sits on the couch, throbbing and radiating, I just don't know with what.

PS-I love you Statia.