Burning Ring of Fire

My mother is a seamstress. She is truly one of the most talented people I have ever met. Give her a needle, thread, and some fabric and she will whip up a beautiful creation. Without breaking a sweat. But it is to my mother's ever lasting lament that neither of her daughters received the 'sewing gene'. Both El' Preggo and I prefer to go to the store and buy off the rack. And if it needs tailoring, well, that is what our mother is for. But to ease my mother's angst, she and I reached a compromise. Every Wednesday I bring Fric and Frac to Gramma's house where she does her best to indoctrinate them into loving sewing. It is too early to say if it is working.

Last night, aforementioned pregnant sister joined us. She needs mommy time before she, herself, becomes a mother to an overgrown, ungrateful, naughty child. (Wait, I think I am confusing my kids with her unborn.) Any ways, after years of her teasing me, the shoe is now on the other foot. With labour looming in the very near future, she asked my mommy and I to ease her anxiety. To tell her it doesn't really hurt. That millions of women before her have exaggerated their agony.

However, revenge is a dish best served cold and I have waited nine years.

I played her Johnny Cash's song "Burning Ring of Fire." And dear internet, no remorse was felt. None at all.