25 came and went, 26, 27,28,29,30, and only at 31 I got hitched. By 32 years of age, I was rocking a massive round tummy, swollen feet and meat cravings for the entire Savannah wild; I was pregnant with my first baby.
When I was younger, I remember flirting with the idea of being hitched, having a baby and driving a BMW 3 series by the time I was 25, it just seemed like the perfect age to “have it all”. I was young and innocent then, seduced by fluid dreams and perceptions of what I saw and believed to be an ideal life at the time.
I was never huge on concepts like marriage or kids, but I guess a thought would make a ghostly appearance once in a while; I am a girl after all. So when at 25 years of age I was crying over some, schmuck that didn’t even deserve my attention, even the ghost stopped making its celestial appearances. And I resolved and strongly believed that I am too free spirited, and independent to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. I was going to live my dream…travel, travel, travel, eating anything and everything that presented itself in the course of my travels, even the Durian Fruit, (which I did eat by the way), eeew. Once every two years, I was going to visit a different continent, then work my way through all the interesting countries, one at a time throughout the years. And for a split second there I did, and had a blast.
Lo-and-behold, 5 odd years later from my “ideal” marriage date I met a boy, he was quite a looker and funny, he told me he liked me, I told him I liked him too, we decided to involve our families and some 600 guests later and 2 day festivities ,we were husband and wife. Six months later, a seed was planted, my tummy was growing, so was my appetite for meat…..a little lion was kicking from inside. On Friday 13th April at 18h45, the lion presented itself with a loud cry and a sneeze and everything was just as it should be…Achoooo, perfect i mean, the stars were in alignment!
Our beautiful big eyed lion is turning 6 this coming Saturday; 6 months that is. I am tired as a dog and red eyed like a hen that’s just pecked on some raw eggs (as my mother would say) from all the night feedings, peek-a-boo games and all things baby, but I am as happy as happy can be. For someone who thought she didn’t have “it” for kids, who thought their destiny was to travel and live off tasting exquisite and extraordinary dishes from some far away unpronounceable places, I certainly am loving being a wife to my husband, but more so finding myself neck deep in my son’s poop, analyzing the quantity, texture and smell. Who knew?