Mother.

It's cloudy but bright enough still to make me feel guilty for staying in bed when I know my senior dog is at this point, painfully holding her bladder. And shit, me too. I hold my breasts so they don't stir much as I sit upright, because fucking ouch. I place a hand on my lower abdomen, "I can't wait to meet you either, baby, but if you implode my tits in the first trimester, you won't have fresh milk."

Roughly wiping the sleep from my face, I accidentally squeeze my breasts ever slightly and squeal in pain; suddenly I'm doing a potty dance. When the delirium clears my eyes, I glance over at my dog, whose inhale is brief and exhale is visibly uncomfortable, every other breath accompanied by a tremble. She has never preferred to leave a mess inside for me to clean. Sigh.

"Come on, mami...let's go outside."