If they take away my cyst, how will I explain the insatiable sugar cravings, pendulum moods and an abdomen with attitude problems? Say what? It’s not the cyst, it’s me? That’s too absurd. Might as well contemplate embracing religion instead.

Or worse – if they rob me of my cyst, what if I crave nothing, feel nothing and sleep uninterrupted on a lifeless uterus? What if I feel a sudden gush of happiness and collapse as my system coredumps because it fails to understand it?

I’ve often felt there are days when the cyst is more than a part of me – it is me. Of course, I didn’t know that it existed till Nibbles was a wee embryo. But it was the explanation I’d been waiting for, a pattern midst the chaos that lent substance – 6.5 cm spread of sebaceous dermoid substance – to the madness. And now they want to take it away and leave me crippled like a fish without a bicycle.

*hunts feverishly for stash of Toblerone hidden by Big Byte*

Remember the blood
from rusting razors
dripping on cracked porcelain.

Remember the vagina
that spat the placenta
that fed the child, your child.

Remember the feeling
to feel to remember
to remember to feel. Was it real?

blahness abounds. Weeks like this make me feel like I’m a WAHM for purely selfish reasons. Nibbles managed to escape some nasty falls, with stitches and scars as keepsakes. He appears bored and irritable, often banging on the front door/yanking his stroller screaming “bye! buh-byeeee!” Poor chap hasn’t figured out how to unlock the door yet, so he’s stuck with this ol’ hag for a bit longer.

My attempts at providing creative stimulation seem forced at best. I flip carelessly from one activity to the next like a jaded grad student selectively stimulating various nodes of the brain: giant animal marker – coloring time, digital drums on punk rock mode – music time, sleepytime stories and rhymes – reading time, slow dancing to fast songs – groovin’ time, soccer with oversized ball – sports time, ten reps on community slide – playing time, crash course on one hand cooking – uh – domestic time. And of course, all of this stuff together could total a whopping ten to fifteen minutes of…of what?

I’ve seen the way his face lights up when he sees other children. He dashes towards them with a brilliant grin spread across his milk-toothed face – only to be hauled away by me because I’m too chicken-shit to leave him alone in a social situation. What if he grabs her pretty curls or pulls her sharp nose? What if she punches back or starts crying? I’ve become the dreaded mama that spawns mama’s boys – the very kind that I’ve always detested.

Dammit Null Pointer! Time’s up. Loosen up those reins or it’s the Dreaded Daycare for your precious Nibbles.

Edited to add: Is tagging a post Post-partum valid after a year post delivery? Fuckit.

Ok, so is it just me or does anybody else love their post-pregnancy belly stretch marks? I must admit, I often find scars beautiful in their abstract splats of purples and reds. And oh the stories they tell! Lunging towards a piping hot pan of freshly baked pizza, defense during inter-house basketball finals, chickenpox, swimming sans sunscreen under a middle-eastern summer sun, depression – but mostly, I just enjoy the unexpected art in an empty canvas of skin.

Despite panic stricken third trimester forums, I decided to stop smelling like cocoa butter and set my belly free. Now 6 months post-partum, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to waddle around large than life, with life (perhaps this is the kind of amnesia that results in a second offspring). But I still find myself copping a feel of the belly that was, and run my fingers across the rings of time. And like the rings of a tree, I feel they speak my age.  It helps reality sink in, lets me know I’ve entered a  new phase of life, brought a baby into this world and have scars to show for it. Although I miss the taut spheroid that housed my Nibbles last year, I’ve grown into the loose folds that remain.

Wonder if this excitement will hold for post-lactation breasts once Nibbles is weaned…