Dear Beloved Spawn,
I love you to bits and always will. But the fact of the matter is that, like Your father, are to damn long.
You can no longer fit in my tinsy uterus. You keep kicking organs that have only been doing their job, and bones that have been holding Us together for the last 8.95 months.
Please get out.
Come out into this cold and unbalanced word already. It needs you to bring it a little more proverbial sunshine and a little less proverbial rain.
That.. and poop. Of course. Because, why the hell not.
Your (tired) Mumma