Five years of being married, and not having reproduced makes strangers assume a great deal of familiarity. They ask questions about when she was planning on having a child, they told her that children bring a lot of joy in one’s life. It was slightly compounded given the fact that she was pleasantly plump. Old women would randomly come and pat her belly and say, “Oh look, you’re finally pregnant. You look you’re about five months in. Right?”. Wrong. She just had a mild case of potbelly. But it also meant that complete strangers assumed that she was pregnant and asked no questions about the lack of reproduction.
She has no idea why they don’t have children yet. They’ve just been putting it off indefinitely. Maybe waiting for some signal from somewhere. But what signal? How is it to be deciphered?
Her thoughts are shattered by the beginnings of an itch on her back. She struggles to scratch it. Back itches are weird like that. Once you scratch a certain spot, they run over to another spot. And then you scratch it there. She remembers how her mother would command them to bring her scratching comb. A comb exclusively used for scratching her back. Maybe that’s a good reason to have a child. They’re excellent back-scratchers. They can be commanded. Scratch a bit more to the left, to the right, a little below.
A back itch is as good as any other signal to have a baby. It is thus decided, they will have one right away.