Circadi, Novembris 15. Early morning.
The baby kicks as I lie awake, unable to sleep. I am close now, with only two or so months to go. Although this time is precious to me, I will be happy to walk without pain again. And even as I write that, I know that the moment I give birth, I will wish I were pregnant once more.
I’m not good at setting my thoughts to paper. Isn’t that rather amusing? I think it is because I must write to communicate so often, that merely thinking is preferable to yet more writing. But sometimes writing does help pass the time, though I doubt I will do it often.
I’m thinking of writing a book, however. That may be fun, simply due to the nature of it. It is a different form of writing. Informative. Perhaps, if I do it right, I’ll have someone to sign with one day. As it stands, I write to communicate, or Nalite translates for me. Either way seems to make people uncomfortable, as if they’re uncertain how to respond to me. It makes me feel bad for them, because it must be rather disconcerting to be thrust unexpectedly into a situation like that.
I’ll admit though, part of me also just wishes to tell them they’re allowed to be normal. I ran into one old woman who, upon realizing I could not speak, proceeded to yell in my face, making outrageous hand gestures as if mute were synonymous with deaf. My reaction? I just laughed, which, I fear, only caused her to think me simple.
Truly, people, you can look at me when Nalite’s translating, you can direct your questions to me, I promise I can hear you, and please. Don’t yell in my face, because there is a high probability while I am still pregnant that your breath will make me vomit on you.
On that pleasant note, I must rush off now to find the wash room, courtesy of my unborn child. Ah, but I do love them.