Tensions are running high here on Walton’s mountain.
In fairness, there isn’t a mountain within 300 miles of us and we are about 2 good days of rain away from needing canoes, but the brain is feeble today and misplaced topographical parallels are all I can muster.
Not content with forcing me into having to put on its mother’s shoes and socks, this child also seems intent on making her walk like a wardrobe being pushed up a hill. This, it transpires, is due to the fact it’s bloody massive.
That’s the midwife’s official view anyway, which she shared with us today while running through the measurements from last week’s scan.
An average head, colossal belly, and tiny legs. Yes indeed, the universe is getting its own back on me, and I’m going to be raising someone that looks like Jabba the hutt.
The upside of growing a monstrous all consuming savage is that they won’t let it get too big without smoking it out. Apparently if it reaches the size of a hotel mini-bar it’s quite difficult to remove through a vaginal passage. Who knew?
Add to all this the fact that concerns that have been voiced over our ability to appropriately name the kid, and it’s feared we will call it after a fruit, or a celebrity, or a celebrity fruit. Therefore we’ve decided to embrace a new name for the belly dweller.
Mango. Fatso Mango.
So you, you umbilical bungee jumping big lipped bugger, this is a warning to you. Make an appearance soon Fatso Mango or we’re coming in there to get you out.
Over and out.