“Pwease pwitty babbehs, pwease make chiwpies fow mummah! -huu huu- Ou am tu wittow fow foweba sweepies!” You cry at the brood of stillborns behind you. It’s too soon, your babies are still supposed to be in your tummy! Why didn’t they know that being out of your tummy too soon is bad for babies?
It’s difficult to turn yourself around in your cardboard box nest to face them, and as you do, you feel a sickly squish beneath your back left hoof. You let your grief and surprise get the best of you, and a loud, mournful wail breaks free from you. You’re certain you stepped on a baby. ‘Everyone knows steppies are bad for babies.’ You think, while swallowing the bile that had made it’s way up your throat. After your 30-ish point turn to face directly behind you, you are relieved. You only stepped in your bad poopies!
Your relief is short lived. All of your babies are dead. 5 pinkish-grey jellybeans with a faint dusting of fluff, a different color each.
“Wai aww Mummah Opaw babbehs gu foweba sweepies? Mummah -hic huuuuu- m-mummah nu gut?? Am bad mummah? -huuuuu huuuu hic huuuuu- Bad -huu- fwuffy?”
You did your best to clean them, licking waste and amniotic fluids from them, and proceeded to try and feed each one of them. Maybe your milkies could wake them?
It was never going to work, and neither would crying, or begging, though your fluffy brain would never really grasp that concept. You may have been an alicorn, but you weren’t really any smarter than the average fluffy.
So you pleaded and wailed to an empty alleyway, to a rapidly darkening sky, to your dead babies. You begged til your throat was sore and your voice was hoarse. You cried until your eyes hurt and your tears ran dry.
“Opaw am bad mummah. Am bad fwuffy. Aww babbehs foweba sweepies.”
You wanted to be a better mother for your foals, to be the kind of mother they deserved, so you did the only thing you could think of.
You sang mummah songs for them.
“Mummah wub… Mummah wub babbehs, Ba… Babbehs wub momma, dwink wotsa miwkies, gwow up big an stwong…” Singing to them hurt your throat a lot, and hurt your heart even worse. You knew your foals wouldn’t wake up. They would never drink your milkies, and they would never grow up big and strong.
You sang songs to them until you fell asleep, too exhausted from labor and heartache to cover yourself with the ratty old blanket you found a week ago, though you probably wouldn’t have anyways, considering you just gave birth on it.
You wake a few hours later to a rumbling growl, just in time to watch a cat snatch up one of your foals. Maternal instinct kicking in before anything resembling thought, your stubby legs propel you forward faster than you thought you would ever move, and you grab the orange and white cat’s tail in your teeth.
The feline quickly turns around and strikes 7 times rapid fire. It hurts, but you’re surprised not to feel claws tearing through your face. In shock, and pain, you release it’s tail, and the cat retreats into the dim light of the early dawn, taking the filly foal with wisps of pink fluff and an extra leg with him. She would have been a good baby, if she had a good mummah.
You’re half way back to your cardboard box nest when you notice. One of your soft, tender hooves is tracking boo-boo juice. You scramble several feet to your home, and count 3 cold foal corpses. How many did you have before? How many had the kitty monster taken? You had a baby for each hoof, which is already a lot, and then another baby on top of those! How many is a lot when you take one away?
Your head starts to hurt, swirling with questions, and sadness, and anger. That kitty monster was so mean. Your baby is already forever sleepies, and now she’s gonna be nummies for some meanie monster! You just wanted to know what it’s like to be a mummah.
Youve never had a chance to have foals, every time you got pregnant, it was the same. They all came out, already sleeping forever. And most of them were… strange. Though you were sure they would have all been good babies, if they had a different mummah. A better mummah.
As you’re about to lay down in your nest, you see a puddle of boo-boo juice, and a few stray black hairs. You stepped on your baby. Maybe even worse, you had forgotten about him momentarily, as you dealt with the horror of the cat which had taken another of it’s siblings.
That’s right. You remember now, when you add one to the number of leggies you have, you get 5. You had 5 children who were born dead this time. A cat took one, and you just squished one.
You make sickie waters right in front of your nest, and then cry so hard your back hurts.
When you are able to stop sobbing, it’s nearly night, your tummy hurts with hunger, and your three remaining foals smell like rot is setting in. You cover them as best as you can with your blanket, and head out in search of food. You’re not planning on returning to the nest. It’s too sad here.
“Gut bai, foweba sweepies babbehs, mummah wubs 'ou.”
wow aren’t em horny, guess thats been a popular used in brothels