Late

I waddled through the trees like a lame duck looking for water. Golden leaves lay at my feet. Fleetingly I thought about kicking them but getting my legs to lift off the ground was struggle enough. Instead I inhaled the crisp, clean air and tried desperately not to think about the tardy baby asleep in my womb.

Now six days late his entrance was pretty much all I could think about. My mantra, a watched baby never shows his face, was wearing thin and the brisk walk was doing nothing to take my mind off my burgeoning load. If anything I was wondering where the nearest cafe was so I could sit down in a warm, centrally heated dining room with a mug of molten hot chocolate and a wedge of sticky chocolate cake.

Magnet walked happily beside me.

"You haven't finished your novel have you mum?"

"No, not yet darling".

"Are you upset about it?", she probed.

I paused, partly to catch my breath, partly to consider my answer. Do I tell her it's OK to make pacts then break them? Do I tell her that life often gets in the way of us completing our dreams? Do I tell her we should not expect too much of ourselves, instead we should opt for a life of mediocrity so that we never get disappointed? I decided against hormonally charged dramatic statements, instead saying,

"Just like this baby, my novel is late and I'm OK with that."

She smiled and walked on. I looked down at my bump, swallowing at the white lie. It didn't feel OK that the baby was late, not then anyway. But I knew that soon it wouldn't matter and I knew it would be the same with my novel.