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I’d already had quite enough for one day and it wasn’t even midday yet, but what could I do? I just had to appear normal and keep an eye out for a solution, a way of getting back.
“Although,” Diora continued, “if I’m going to be able to cope with your party, I’ll have to have a nap beforehand.” She rubbed her belly. “This little one’s got me so tired I’m falling asleep at eight thirty most nights, only to be woken by a karate kick and triple somersault two hours later.” She downed the rest of her hot chocolate, while I was only halfway through mine.
The conversation was easier than I’d imagined, as she did most of the talking. I mostly nodded and gave single syllable responses, then Diora looked at her e-pad.
“Wow, is that the time? We better go,” she said, pushing her chair back with a screech and using her hands to propel her body up from the chair. “Whoa! Quick, Mum. Feel this.” She grabbed my hand and shoved it onto her belly.
A wave of ripples met with my hand, then they moved further to the side and I saw them. Little bumps rolled along her abdomen, as though a tiny creature was trapped and trying to get out. Well, I guess that was kind of true, although it was a tiny human.
But not just any human. My grandchild. And hopefully it wasn’t trying to get out right now. I mean, of course it would eventually, but please, not today. I’m not ready to be a mother, let alone a grandmother.
“Does it hurt?” I released my hand.
Diora shrugged. “No, but I’ve been enjoying more Braxton Hicks lately, which certainly make me stop and take notice.”
Braxton Hicks? Who’s she talking about? Was he some kind of pop singer? And what did he have to do with pregnancy?
“How long did you have Braxton Hicks for before you went into labour with me, Mum?” Diora asked.
Crap. How the hell should I know? “Umm, I can’t remember.”
“C’mon, surely you have some idea. Was your pregnancy with me that unmemorable?” Diora planted an exaggerated pout on her face.
If only she knew the half of it. I couldn’t exactly say: ‘Actually, Diora, I don’t remember it at all, nor do I remember giving birth to you and I certainly don’t remember your (gulp) conception.’ I shuddered at the thought of me with William. And then I remembered what he said about my other birthday present being later tonight. Oh God, I had to find a way back home before then!
“Um, maybe it was a week?” I hoped that was a believable answer and that she wasn’t expecting me to say five months or anything.
“A week?” she exclaimed, holding on to her stomach as if for support. “I’ve been having them for about ten days now. I could pop at any minute!”
Please don’t. Please.
“Oh well, my next doctor’s appointment is only three days away, so I’ll ask about it then. On second thoughts…” Diora pinched open the e-pad screen and typed something.
“What are you doing?”
“Foogling.”
“What?” I peered towards the screen.
“Foogling. To see what the internet can tell me about Braxton Hicks.”
A shriek of surprise shot from my mouth on seeing the search engine web page. It looked just like the Google logo, only it said Foogle.
“Oh look, three-hundred and forty-seven people on Facebook have been discussing Braxton Hicks in the last hour.” Diora pointed at the screen.
This Braxton guy must be quite popular with young people these days. I wonder if his music’s anything like Ryan’s?
“Braxton Hicks contractions usually last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks before the onset of labour,” Diora read from some website she’d found.
Contractions? Didn’t contractions mean labour? Something told me she wasn’t talking about a pop singer after all.
“And look, this blog tells the story of one woman who didn’t have any Braxton Hicks at all. One day, her water just broke and bam!… Out came baby.”
“Ah, Diora, maybe you should just wait until you see the doctor instead of relying on the internet.” Well, whaddya know. My first piece of solid motherly advice!
“Yeah, you’re right. And we better get walking,” she replied, pushing the screen back into the e-pad and tugging on my arm, both to lead me in the right direction and to balance her weight.
“Diora?” I asked. “Why do they call it Foogle? I’ve forgotten.”
