I remember the first time I had an embryo transferred. At that very moment my easy-going self became about a thousand times more likely to put her foot down if she thought she was being asked to do something which might harm her little conceptus. And when the last hope for that cycle died away, I felt my usual self return. The changes were immediate and intense. It was, I think, what they call a Mamma Roar.

---

Last night we went out for dinner with some of Mr Bea's colleagues. As my usual bedtime rolled around, I turned to Mr Bea and gave his knee a subtle squeeze, and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod in return to show he'd heard and understood. So I sat back and waited for him to politely make our excuses. Twenty-five minutes later I decided to take matters into my own hands. I placed my hand upon his and said, both to him and to the table at large, "We should be going." He agreed, and immediately turned to strike up a new line of conversation with the person sitting on his other side. As that subject drew to a close, I again took his hand, this time turning to our host who was sitting on the other side of me. "Thanks for an absolutely gorgeous dinner," I said. "It was all wonderful*. I hope you don't mind if we head off a little early**."

"Not at all!" she replied, and I turned back to Mr Bea, who was pouring himself more wine.

"After this glass," he promised. Over an hour after my first request, I managed to effect an exit by gathering our things together and making actual physical manouvres towards the door, forcing all the other guests to stand up and bid farewell. Mr Bea found himself swept up in the general movement, and we were soon on the street outside. "Shall we walk to the MRT?" he asked.

"We're taking a taxi," I replied tersely, and hailed one. There was silence on the way home.

As I turned the key to our flat, he hugged me at the waist and asked if I'd had a nice day. "It was marred at the end by your refusal to leave dinner after repeated requests," I replied in clipped tones. "I'm actually pretty pissed off about that. These are not ordinary circumstances. I expect you to be taking better care." And I didn't mean "of me". I was talking about... well, our precarious and only-just-clinging-to-life pregnancy. The stakes are high this time. I've got my Mamma Roar, where's his Daddy Aggro?

Mr Bea got this sullen, almost childish look - the indignant look of an eight-year-old who knows he doesn't have a leg to stand on but isn't ready to give in. "I might come to bed later," he said once we got inside, lying down on the couch and popping the cushion under his head.

But when I woke up this morning he was lying beside me in bed, curled protectively around my waking body.


---
*Although I do wish it hadn't been almost entirely made up of sushi, soft cheeses and meat cooked rare to medium-rare, and the frequent toasting made it extremely awkward to disguise the fact I wasn't drinking.

**It was already after 11pm.