After an arduous, tiring pregnancy it boomeranged within me, gritted its gums and abseiled out, clasping firmly onto the sinews which once secured it, and it tumbled into the frothy mess that lay below.
With no nurses to wipe it up and present it to me after a towel-down, the onus fell onto me to scoop the strands of myself from its shrewface and to pat it down. No nurse declared how beautiful it was, but even if she or he did, I wouldn't believe her or him. Was it worth it, I thought. Is it worth it?
Within only three short minutes, the little morsel was sitting bolt upright. Crooked it was, and its eyes were bearing down on me. Its flappy little lips pursed and unpursed whilst still it gawped. I bent forward to clean myself up when his first words boomed forth.
"Bepanthen" it declared, with a clarity of voice which cut through the stale meaty air.
I glared back, which it mistook for a lack of comprehension rather than the uncertain meagre tremors of affability.
"It's a brand of ointment" it added, blinking.
Cheeky little mite, I thought. Cheeky little thing. In my head, I committed myself to getting some Bepanthen. Mothers go and get things for their babies don't they. A bit of powder milk here. Bit of Bepanthen there.
It sat in the centre of the floor, shuffling about and peering up, toiling wistfully to dislodge a thin shard of womb from betwixt its crooked toes.
"Help then", it implored.