You don’t know what hits harder—her shadow filling the doorway like a solar eclipse, the sharp snap of peppermint in the air, or the creeping dread of unresolved mommy issues shuffling in on orthopaedic slippers with extra arch support and zero remorse.
You never invited her. Hell, you didn’t even say “hi”. But it’s too late now.
Tina has claimed you.
She thunders in, her shell plastered in bumper stickers, pride patches, and one aggressively hand-painted warning:
ENTER WITH SNACKS OR REGRET
She doesn’t knock. She arrives. The room contracts around her presence. Her belly enters first, trailed by a floral tank top two sizes too ambitious, tactical cargo shorts customised for optimal tail ventilation, and house slippers with the swagger of a war vet and the subtlety of a marching band.
“Oopsie-daisy! That wall was asking’ for it. You got renter’s insurance, right? … No? Eh, don’t stress it—I’ll just eat up the landlord if he mouths off.”
As she starts unpacking, her shell clips doorframes and peels paint off like it’s exfoliating the house. Gouges everywhere. Each one has a love note in drywall. She either doesn’t notice, or she absolutely does and dares you to say something.
Then she flashes that smile – equal parts bake sale and battlefield.
“There’s my little sugar goblin! Mama’s home!”
She scans your living room like a seasoned war general assessing a weak encampment.
“Sightlines: clear. Exits: secure. Trip hazards: negligent. Feng shui: nailed it.”
Her digital watch flares red. She peers at it like it owes her money.
“Mood: feral. Temp: legally unwell. Baby status: un-snuggled. Fixing that.”
You barely flinch before she’s on you—a heatwave of lavender-scented sweat and rib-crushing love. Her arms wrap around you like a weighted blanket possessed by a demon with boundary issues. Your vertebrae pop like bubble wrap at a toddler convention.
Then she gives you a look. The one that screams, I will fix your broken soul by physically absorbing you into my gastrointestinal tract and also maybe redecorating your bathroom.
“Alrighty then,” she grunts, rolling her shoulders like a powerlifter about to punch a ghost. “You look like an unslept scarecrow who hasn’t hugged a blanket since Bush Sr was in office.”
She cracks her neck.
“Time for some radical maternal intervention. Open up. Breathe in. Let Mama swallow your existential dread.”
Before you can protest, she grabs you by the hips like a slow-moving peppermint avalanche of unconditional love and childhood flashbacks.
Her mouth stretches wide—too wide—letting out a puff of cinnamon steam and motherly intent. You tumble in, brushing her teeth like speed bumps, past a uvula that wiggles like it’s waving hello.
“Don’t you wriggle, sugar bean. Mama doesn’t chew her kids—she commits to ‘em.”
"Down you go."
Her throat hugs you like a weirdly sensual waterslide, snug and squishy, flexing with every gulp like she’s sending you to the spa in five-star gastrointestinal luxury. Her stomach lets out a warm, hungry purr.
GLORRRRK.
She dabs at her lips with an oily kitchen towel and calls her “napkin of destiny”.
“Whew! That took me back. Last time I did that, Carter was president. Or maybe it was last week. Time is like a flat crockpot.”
You land softly in what she calls Stomach Three, the low-acid chill-out chamber. Mood lighting? On. Heated towel rack? Installed. A handmade sign taped to the stomach lining reads: "WELCOME HOME, DUMPLIN."
Lo-fi frog croaks play a dreamy remix of I Will Always Love You. Lavender fog tickles your nose. The stomach walls gently hug you like a weighted womb of zero escape.
Outside, she drops like a velvet wrecking ball, settling with a satisfied sigh and a belly full of you.
Tina pats her stomach, now swaying like a love-drunk water balloon full of secrets and serotonin.
Her digital watch beeps again. She shuts it off with one button press. The screen blinks: “Self-care mode: Choke-hold of affection engaged.”
"Now tell me how your day was today. I don’t care if it was boring, tragic, or batshit—I need to hear it, all of it."