I should be happy. I mean I am. I mean I should.
But there is a bump on my shoulder, that has sprouted a tail and a pitch fork, making me feel extremely agitated.
"Your brother is going to have another kid. You don't even have a husband. What is wrong with you?" it torments.
I plug my listening holes and hum "La, La, La" in my head. But the bump becomes more fierce.
"In 3 years, your brother fell in love, got married, had a son, celebrated his 1st birthday, and is pregnant again. And you. Ha! What have you done?"
I whip up my best cheery voice and call mom.
"Did you hear? I love all these babies," she said. The pitch fork jabs me in the eye as the bump devil taunts "Not you. She's not talking about you."
Babies babies every where. Babies babies pull my hair. Babies babies all around. Babies babies make me frown.
Poor C. I pointed the fork at him.
"I have good news," I said, with bitter sarcasm. "My brother is having another kid."
And then my tongue turned into a loaded cannon.
"Looks like my dream of having at least one kid grow up with his cousin is shattered!" The bomb whizzed through the air. "Do we have any wine? Because I'M NOT PREGNANT, and I feel like having the whole bottle."
I saw the gun smoke, but shame stopped me from blowing it out.
It was not a kill to be proud of. More like a suicide.