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Oh, I'm kidding. Let's talk me being pregnant some more.
Someone asked me how I was feeling yesterday, stomach flu aside, and I was happy to inform them that I'm feeling really pretty good, now that I've hit 14 weeks.
And then it occurred to me that hmmm, I think I've been saying "14 weeks" for more than a week now. And then I completely blanked on how far along I actually am, and had to go off and re-consult an online pregnancy due date calculator thing.
I'm 15 weeks. And a half.
If I were my first-time pregnant self reading that, I would call my third-time pregnant self an asshole. A terribly callous, disinterested asshole. Man, just thinking about the self-righteous, paranoid sermon my first-time pregnant self would've lathered herself into makes me tired. Bitch needs to back the truck up and calm the cluck down, if you know what I mean. Could you tell her that for me? I can't even deal with her. She's so screechy about everything.
Instead, this pregnancy seems...so quietly marvelous, so mysteriously separate from me and yet so very simply ALL MINE. I can feel the baby's whisper-feathery little movements, when I'm lying on my back (OH GOD NO) at night, and the crazy-fast thumpthumpthump of his heart is now ridiculously easy to find with the doppler.
(I never told you this, but for quite a few weeks I couldn't find the heartbeat, even though I was at the point where I was sure I *SHOULD* have been able to find it, and I walked into my 12-week ultrasound secretly convinced beyond any doubt that the baby was dead. CONVINCED. I even tried to give Jason a heads' up the night before that I had a very strong feeling that we were going to get some bad news, so. You know. Prepare thyself, for I have the Motherly Hunch of Doom. When the giant BABYNESS filled the ultrasound monitor I was like, "Oh! Never mind!" And Jason totally laughed at me.)
We won't know "for sure" about the sex for another month at least, though I admit we're operating under the assumption of another boy. (I know, I know, but if you saw what we saw at the last ultrasound, well...even the doctor was like, "Yeah, that's a boy.")
We have the name picked out. We've used it aloud, even. We've opted to not discuss girl names unless the next ultrasound completely shocks the hell out of us. I know everybody -- oh my God, EVERYBODY -- assumes we want a girl, or were deliberating trying for a girl, and nobody ever believes me that SURE, we'd want a girl, but in the same way we'd want a boy, if that's what it is, because the only thing we were even semi-deliberating trying for was a BABY.
A girl would be lovely, of course. Super fun, I'm sure. I always assumed I'd have daughters, but rest assured...there is no pang. No pink-tinged hole of regret or feeling of loss when I picture myself as the mother of all boys. There is -- really and pinkie-swear truly -- nothing but cheesy-ass JOY at the image of Jason and I simply buried under a big old pile of OUR CHILDREN, however many we end up with or however worn out that same old recycled "Thank Heaven For Baby Boys" onesie looks in my imagination.
Sometimes -- yes, I make jokes about it. Usually while scrubbing the base of our toilets or like, I don't know dude, it's a fruit sticker. I jokingly pout in the clothing stores. I hold up the little-girl options to show Jason and stick my tongue out because oh my God can you believe how cute this is and I didn't even show you the matching leggings and ballet slippers. And then I put it down and buy Basic "Daddy's Lil' All-Star/Champion/Bruiser" T-Shirt Version 732 instead.
One time, Jason recalls looking up from whatever giant Lego construction project he and Noah had going all across the living room floor and seeing me curled up on the couch, paging through a (sorely misdirected) American Girls' catalog that came in the mail. And he worried, then, that I was missing out on something. Of course Jason would be more than happy to swap the Legos for a tea party and the lightsabers for princess wands -- he's just a good, involved dad who loves his kids -- but later he actually did wonder out loud if I was sad about not having any girls.
I wasn't. I'm not. My boys are just...my boys, my babies, the ones I was meant to have. They are as sweet as the sweetest sugar in the world, and they give me everything -- EVERYTHING -- that I ever wanted out of motherhood, and so much more.
And in...oh, who can remember exactly how many weeks, I get to do it all over again. Maybe we'll have a girl. Or maybe another boy. I don't care. I really don't care. It's delicious either way.