Writhing Snakes Inside, But It's Not All Bad

Sometimes my insides feel like a nest of writhing poisonous snakes. I'm hoping they will stop feeling this way very soon, and this feeling of anxiety with which I'm am currently cursed is quelled.

But it's not all bad.  Yesterday marked fifteen years since a midwife handed me a slimy, slippery, vernix coated scrap of humanity; that humanity looked up at me with a puzzled and indignant expression on his face, as though saying: 'What the actual fuck was that all about?'  That scrap of humanity would wail when he was hungry, and acquiesce when I picked him up and held him to my breast, the source of his nourishment. 

Now, that former scrap is almost has tall as his father, his father being 6'1".  When hungry, he either grunts, 'What's to eat?', or else just eats pretty much an entire canister of breakfast cereal, or slathers enough peanut butter to render a wall over four (four!) slices of bread which he then constructs into a quadruple decker sandwich. 

He is the striker of his soccer team, and has quite the forceful boot on him.  Next week he will be playing goalie for one half of the game, which should help protect him from that cyclonic little lunatic from the opposing team, against which they have been drawn.  I wrote about her last week, I believe; she was the one who ran around like Tassie the Tasmanian Devil in an infuriated dervish-like state, knocking over and winding all the other kids (but not my son; she came off second best when she tried to bowl him over).

He is bloody fantastic in Maths and Science, and has aspirations to work in robotics engineering.  In this regard, he takes after his father and not me.

He changed my life completely fifteen years ago when I added 'mother' to my list of jobs and accomplishments.

In the foreword of my first novel, I wrote a special dedication to him and his brother.  I told them that no matter how proud I was of having produced a novel, I would always be more proud of having produced them.  I still am, even though I have to shout at them for leaving socks and shoes in the lounge room.