A Mother’s Relief


Picture the scene; you’re on a long car journey, homeward bound, it’s all been horribly stressful with in-car squabbling, motion sickness and the youngest writing ‘poo head’ on the back of the driver seat with a felt-tip.  Even though there are still 30 miles to go before you get home there’s no way you’re going to ask your other half to stop the car so you can take a piddle.  It is widely known that women as a species have the ability to put themselves 2nd to everything occurring around them; regardless of their wants or desperate needs, never mind their bloody desires.

As in the new Mother who can spend an hour plus with their nipple being sucked relentlessly, even though it’s covered in the scabs of overuse.  Sitting there with a now-dead foot tucked under her because she sat awkwardly whilst rushing to tend to her baby, and the TV remote just a quarter of an inch out of reach along with her freshly made cup of tea and her ‘life’.  Let it be known that she might be desperate to use the toilet, pee or poo; and knows that either will be painful having recently squeezed a mini-human out of her previously unsullied fanny; but that woman will not disturb her baby.  A baby who is taking a really fucking long time to take on-board a decent amount of milk.  A bundle of joy who keeps dropping off every two seconds like a hobo with a well-fingered bottle of Frosty Jack and causing pain akin to being shot at close-range directly in the nipple with a rifle each and every time it can be arsed to latch back on again.  But no matter; that Mother will still not disturb her baby.

However when she eventually heads for the toilet; dragging the leg that now has no feeling in it and cupping her ‘fit to burst’ vadge with one hand, whilst roughly shoving her, now bleeding tit back into its pad-lined maternity bra, the relief upon squatting over that bog and spraying the toilet like a ‘Karscher’ power washer is something no man could ever hope to understand. 

Then there’s the all too frequent occasions when your head is so pickled with the kids in-house squabbling, bare-knuckle fighting and thinly veiled attempts to murder each other.  When the blood that should be pumping round your body has instead migrated to your head causing your face to be swell and become purple.  You can see the solution but the toddlers curled one out and is busy rummaging in her nappy and the older one sensing your stress levels have piqued  has now raised her voice so that it feels like a Woodpecker is taking it upon itself to increase the circumference of your eye sockets with it’s beak. Again, you are woman you have no choice but to continue the marathon of life; batting forwards like Sir Ralph Fiennes after losing the tip of his cock/nose; whatever to frostbite you must not stop.  The post-school sequence of steps towards bedtime must be completed if you are to enjoy the truly esoteric moment you are done. The Nirvana in a glass waiting for you and with it…’relief’.

 

 

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