I’m writing this from a rather lovely spot. Morgs and I are taking an unhurried breakfast
at our secret resort getaway, relaxing and reading the papers, surrounded by
verdant, green jungle in a valley high in the mountains of Kao Yai National
Park.
The ‘resort’ is perhaps 10 or 15 simple bungalows scattered
around the edge of a large garden. In
the centre of the garden is a ring of palms, shading a deep blue pool. Before us, behind us and to either side, rise
the mountains with their dense tangle of rainforest; close enough to touch and
ringing with the calls of birds and monkeys.
Apart from these pleasant intrusions on our quiet world, all is
peaceful.
For our safety, the place is policed vigorously by an
ancient jack russell, who begins the day on the grass, in a patch of sun by the
gate, cunningly pretending to sleep while watching the world through
half-closed eyes, ready to pounce should anyone try to slip by him. Fortunately, no one ever does and so by noon,
when the temperature creeps up, Jack finishes his shift and drags himself
across the lawn to the shade of the bougainvillea, where he stretches his
stubby legs out behind him, resting his round little belly on the cool grass
and collapsing with a loud, wet snort.
This is probably the last time Morgs and I will have a
holiday like this together so we are making the most of it: long lie-ins,
leisurely meals and lots of self-indulgently soppy eye-gazing. I used to scoff at couples like us, slipping
quietly off to bed at seven thirty, while I called for another round of tequilas
and mentally balanced the wisdom of ordering something to eat against the
potential impact on the silhouette of whatever it was I was wearing (yes, I’m
that shallow).
How things have changed!
All I want to do in the evenings now
is sneak off to bed and cuddle. I’m
actually a bit upset if I’m not tucked in by eight thirty. And as for my tummy: I adore its big
roundness and I find myself rubbing it and stroking it far more often than is
generally considered either proper or seemly.
I’m like someone’s fat uncle at the end of the barbeque; leaning back
contentedly in my chair and stretching my arms above my head, looking down in
admiration at the vast expanse of belly and running my hands back and forth
over it with pride.
I am going to miss this: this feeling of our baby growing inside me; feeling his kicks growing stronger each day; his movements becoming more deliberate, more exploratory. I am going to miss lying on my back watching him move under my skin. I'm going to miss being pregnant.
