A few months ago - 6 to be exact, I received an email congratulating me on conceiving and telling me that my baby is the size of a peanut. Thereafter, I've been receiving regular reports comparing the developing fetus to various bits of fruit and vegetable and remarking on the development of fingernails and eyelashes. Apparently now it's big enough to wear baby clothes.
For those who know me, I have the maternal instincts of a steak knife. Little children and babies smell the fear and sense the anxiety and start screaming - bless their God-given survival instincts. Good thing Weng has enough nurturing talent for the both of us, he's like a kiddie magnet - little girls fall in love with him and little boys try to head butt his favorite parts when they rush in for a bear hug.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this post. It's late, I'm hungry (how much air can a being digest?) and I'm still at the office, trying to help with damage control on a project scope that's threatening to condense six months of work into ten days. Then there's that 7am memo review tomorrow, face to face.
Bring on the booties and jumper suits, I say.
No, joking only lah.
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