Pregnancy sucks.

Hormones render my brain useless.

The unusual internal silence feels good, though. Sometimes. But other times, I wish I could see the end of any calculation more complicated than predicting the weather, which is for dummies, really.

I also snore like a pig. Mint thinks it's cute.

He's strange. And he's a liar, too. Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but he's not very good at keeping promises.

He crawled his way back into my bed for the whole night. And I can't even say no, because he's fucking practical to have around. He's much more stable than those stupid pregnancy pillows. He doesn't shrink into an amorphous, unsteady crap when I prop my leg up on him so that my humungous belly fits.

He does the laundry, though. And he lets me experiment, without boundaries. That's two of the three, so he still shows a 66.66% effectiveness when it comes to keeping promises.

Such a stupid number. Or it's just my pregnancy brain.

I'm a bit scared of giving birth. It's not the pain I'm worried about. The whole thing sounds like a huge fest of bodily fluids.

Mint will be there to help me. And Jorge's grandma. She knows a lot about spirits and babies. And Duke, because he almost cried when I told him that he couldn't come. And, to be realistic, basing my prediction on the festival that accompanied me to my previous ultrasound, half of the city will be there. Jorge has sixty-nine cousins, and all of them wanted to know if it was a girl or a boy.

If I'm lucky, they'll make enough noise to avert my focus from bodily fluids. The odds look good. They're very good at making noise.

It's a boy, by the way.

I hope my son will have a very big head. Like a corgi. Or a wombat.

Mint resembles an overly happy Newfoundland lately, so there is a chance. They say newborns look like their fathers to make sure that paternity isn't questionable. Well, in Mint's case, it's a waste of nature's resources. He knows for a fact that he is. Fucking around would require touching other people, so it's pretty self-explanatory, but still. It will be much easier to sing Hakuna Matata to a target that's somewhat cute.

I'm still a bit concerned if I can love our child properly.

Mint says that keeping him alive against two thousand five hundred eighty-six dangers counts as love. But that's just his usual logical fallacy speaking, confusing a part for the whole.

I found a more valid argument. It's still not seamless, but I'm working on it.

My son and his accessories are currently forming 27% of my body, basing my calculation on net weight. And the fact that he's coming out won't change much. It's a mere meter or so in distance, so it won't make a definitive difference between him and me. It's just a technical detail.

So why would it end love?

There's a 99.3% chance that it won't.