It was an idyllic scene.
Graham and I were lounging in the bath together, playing and singing, when I leaned forward in what I can only, in hindsight, conclude must have been an extremely unflattering manner.
He frowned. A look of confusion passed his face. He reached out and grabbed a small(ish) section - okay, okay, a roll - of my belly.
Whassat?!
Sigh.
It’s Mama’s stomach sweetie. Look there’s Graham's stomach.
I tried and failed to pinch an inch on him.
He eyed me suspiciously and lunged at my stomach again, seizing what can only be described as a handful.
Dat mama! Whassat?
Oh Good Lord.
It was then I knew. It’s not the sickness and the puking or the worry or the exhaustion that finally mark you as a mother: it’s the abject humiliation.
Could we please just go back to talking about my nipple?
