A) the nightmares had become too much
or
B) Katniss had kicked me in the shins/knees/manhood so much I d gone numb.
But last night brought the trouble to me, I guess. She seemed fine only moving about to accommodate for her stomach, where a little me-or-her was growing, and doing enough damage itself.
This baby wasn t an easy carry, and she didn t have to tell me to know. She was tired often, a little queasy all the time, and always talking to her belly, asking why there was so much fuss. Haymitch blamed it on our age; twenty-seven-year-olds in the glory days of District 12 usually were on their third or fourth child by now.
That statistic scared me. Mostly because I knew nothing about well real life. Sure, I knew how to take down a kid twice my size with a stick, but I d never seen a birth until one of the local strays had kittens. And that was last week. Real life and I didn t really seem to mesh, so to say. Adjusting after the Games was like trying to hammer in a screw you can do it, but not without some damage.
I rolled out of bed, trying to avoid stepping on the ginger fluff monster at the foot of the mattress. That cat had way more than the run-of-the-mill nine lives. The other day it ran face-first into the oven, doing not much but singing its whiskers and pretty well pissing itself off. The poor thing survived the revolution, the bombing, and its fair share of baking accidents.
Other than the towel pile, Buttercup the Indestructible found home sprawled out on Katniss round belly. She couldn t do much more than threaten to make a nice scarf out of him. She was too big to do much of anything, actually, and I found it adorable. They say pregnant women glow. Katniss didn t glow, but it was something odd and and far more beautiful in every way.
When I got to my domain, the kitchen, I took in a deep breath. I smelled burned crumbs, tangy frosting, coal shards, hot hearth home. Its where I belonged, where my greatest comfort lay. With every nightmare came a cake; with every anxiety attack, a loaf of bread.
I started warming scones I d made just the other day, frying some eggs that paired nicely. The bird with the orange sauce, my favorite, also made its way to the table. Breakfast wasn t a huge deal unless, of course, it was Sunday. Sundays were game days. When Katniss, sans-baby, would bring home a fresh feast. These days were the best in the week, although, I had to admit Being married to Katniss Everdeen made every day spectacular.
I heard the stairs creak slightly, and turned to see my wife, white-knuckle-gripping the railing. Her hair was sticking out of her braid like a haystack, her eyes still drifty and half asleep. I could have laughed, but not because it was funny. She looked so young and, dare I say, cute.
No morning sickness? I inquired, pulling her chair out for her.
Nope, she yawned, padfooting to her seat. She slid in carefully as not to get stuck.
The little bear seems to be hibernating.
Little bear? I asked, putting my hand on her tummy to say good morning. She must ve been so used to the little flutters that she didn t even bother to feel them anymore.
The thing is ferocious. she wanted to laugh. It was brimming in her eyes.
Then why not lion, or wolf? I cocked a brow.
With a pat on her tummy and a pause she looked up at me. Damn thing is big enough to be a bear.
We laughed, even though I could tell she was half-serious.
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