I don't feel good so I go lie down. Avril follows me into my room. After a few minutes of tickling her and reading her the books she brings, she gets down again and after a few seconds I hear,
I look up and over to where Avril is pointing next to my bed. This book was laying open on my bedside table to this page. I turned to it after finding out that I was eight weeks pregnant today.
"Baby eye," Avril points to the black spot on the baby's face.
"Baby nine," she's pointing to the baby's foot, but she can't say the word "foot" yet.
She smiles, cocks her head to one side and picks the book up gently, holding it to her chest. There is no question in her mind what this is a picture of. And she won't give me the book back. She's carrying it around the house.
I am moved to tears. Granted. It's probably the hormones.
I know it's never that simple for women who don't want to be pregnant, but with respect, I think it ought to be.