Life is just unfair

I am the one who put on thirty kilos just so that Leya could have life. I am the one who started to resemble Gerard Depardieu, becoming so grotesque in my aspect that, eleven months after the fact, my father still reassures me at least three times a week that I was the ugliest pregnant person he has ever seen in his life. I am the one who has had all kinds of substances, from antiobiotics to chicken liver, land in my hair as Leya raspberries her disapproval thereof. I am the one who has incurred her wrath and had to dodge tiny flailing fists because I have dared to remove cigars fashioned from dead leaves and duck pooh from her inner cheeks. I am the one who has woken up at five am to pretend that trying on a hat is the funniest thing I have ever done in my life. I am the one whose mind has turned into a jukebox with only three offerings: Wind the bobbin up, Clap your hands and Twinkle twinkle little star.

And yet, am I the favourite parent? NO. For the second night running, I have been a spectator to the Leya and James Show, the Greatest Love Story on Earth. Last night, they rested their foreheads against each other and stared into each others eyes for a full minute, gawklingly grinning at each other like two Internet daters who have finally struck gold. Desperate to be part of the scene, I laid my head on James' shoulder, trying to insinuate myself into their happy family. It was pathetic. I was like the short, badly dressed person who stands on the periphery at a cocktail party and laughs at inappropriate moments.

I haven't felt this left out since being the only Jew in the class at Christmastime.