That feeling when their body is far too small for their first pregnancy, a full little of six. They haven't even gotten to their third trimester before they look like tic ready to pop, their belly swollen grotesquely tight, veins trembling beneath paper skin. They can barely walk, but that's no excise to allow them to slack on their duties, cooking and cleaning and such.
You notice when they sit down for their daily 5 minute allotted break time that they can't sit up right, their back locked at an obtuse angle by the gravity of their gravidy.
When night rolls around and you have them on their back as best as possible on the table, you get to hear them cry and whine as you press on their shoulders, forcing their back flat as they tend to the rod underneath your coat.
As they cry and moan, massaging you with their throat, you stare at their purplish-red belly. It's shape is not smooth and soft like a nurturing, natural womb. No, it's more alien, it's appearance is almost hateful. Angry and red, every slight movement not just a threat but a promise to tear away the fleshy sack like a steel can under a truck tire.
You always take utmost care to have then restrained upside down when they sleep so as not to allow them gravity's blessing should their water break, though you knew all too well that even if it did you'd simply resort to using the implement given to you by the doctor. After all, you can't have cattle half baked cattle, can you? No, just as it is their sworn duty to provide to you everything, it is your duty to ensure that they are allowed their full term, perhaps even more should the situation, or you, call for it.