I had a very odd dream this morning.
After walking through a big garden with a friend who we will call "Mel", and having deep talks about life, I ended up in a classroom where my belly started to twitch, my shirt was lifted from my belly, a scalpel was applied to my belly (all without pain I should acknowledge) and the next thing I knew my belly was flatter like it used to be but it had a very large unhappy frown mark on it. There were no stitch marks. When I asked the doctor why, he said that they try to butterfly caeser wounds nowadays as they heal faster. I asked where my baby was.
Which one? They asked.
Pardon? I was only pregnant with one.
No, no, you've had 27.
I'm sorry? Who named them? Did Adrian use the names we had chosen?
They told me the names. They were not what Adrian and I had planned. Apparently people had taken turns naming them. I got angry about this. Then I saw my 27 children. They were all different from each other (except for the twins). They all appeared to be two years old.
I think I'm getting scared about this labour thing. Or perhaps my brain is still miffed at the gas station attendant who asked if I was pregnant with twins and I replied, "No, I'm just giant."
Because after all, only giants could have 27 toddlers with one relatively small scar.