While I've been preparing in my own way she's been flitting around in excitement getting things ready. Like I said everything was about the baby.
He wasn't even here yet and already he had taken over our lives completely. That was fine by me, my girl was happy and that's all the fuck I cared about at the end of the day.
Now she's on my ass about my shit. I don't know what she's doing in my little corner anyway. It's the only part of the house she and her gaggle of hens had left me. I never knew kids needed that much fucking room.
No wonder my parents had a mausoleum, with three of us they'd needed the space apparently. I'd always thought my house was a decent size; five bedrooms and four bathrooms seemed like enough to me.
But now there's talk of knocking down walls to make room for a nursery and shit. How much fucking room could he need? I've seen those things and they barely fit on my arm. What the fuck?