Boss, you're a damn saint. I'll take you up on all but the bed: got a nice, big one in m' yurt I don't use. That ol' sayin' 'bout sleeping when you're dead?
It's a crock. 'Less I'm injured or some such, at least.
Won't say no to that, but I wouldn't fret. She's got herself a bear of her own, plus I gave her a new doll--somethin' I made. On top of that? She's got Mrs. Porter 'n her brood crashin' out on the bed with her--that big gold dog I claimed 'n her pups. Gonna let her pick one for herself, one of the pups, I mean.
...can you do me one favor, Boss? If you wanna order her any clothes--little girl whatnot--stick with tank tops 'stead of t-shirts, and no dresses with sleeves. Made her a promise I wouldn't say nothin', but she's got a...physical situation what necessitates tops with as little in the back 'n shoulders as possible.
Mmmh. Well, that ain't a hard thing to fix, sugar pie. I'll track down your teacher 'n talk to 'em. And if that still ain't challenge enough, you 'n me can do some stuff together. Whatcha like best at school, favorite subject?
Well, I'll be a sonufabitch: congratulations, little boss! If that's the case, maybe take off the jobs right away. Delicate condition 'n all--I don't give a rat's ass what them medical men say, or how tough women are, you're busy buildin' a person and can use all the down time you can get.
You're a mother. The rugrat's priority, any idiot can see that, little boss.
If you're gonna insist on workin' until you get bigger, I'll do ya one better 'n a vest, 'cause kevlar can't cover everything. You'll take my coat for a spell--the one I wear when I'm workin' as a god, and not just stompin' mudholes in folks. It's a divine relic--like the Holy Grail or the Spear of Destiny, this one's just specific to me. So long as you wear it, death can't touch you, nor the bun in the oven.
I'll bring it by later on. When you're ready to be benched 'till the baby's born, you can bring it back to me. Sound good?
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