God. Am a walking, gestating rerun.
The same thing happened last time, but I cannot HELP IT. I am currently too distracted by my fat little stack of photos of my fat little orange ghost-fetus to write about anything except how much I looooooooooohhhhve him. Want to snuuuuuuggle him. To hug him and squeeze him and call him George.* Then I want to punch myself in the face a little bit, because DAMMIT WOMAN, STOP SPOONING THAT SHEET OF WALLET-SIZED PHOTOS AND GO REORGANIZE THE LINEN CLOSET.
But. Then. Those. Cheeks! Smooooooooosh.
*He will not be called George.
I wasn't really very gung-ho about the 3D ultrasound this time -- Jason actually ended up making the appointment, once it became clear that I was constantly "too busy" to call, what with the phone being alllll the way over there, and my butt being alllllll the way over here. (For those of you who asked -- this was an elective, non-medical ultrasound, paid for with cash money. To some teenager at the mall. At a combination sonogram/frozen yogurt kiosk. Free froyo with every 30 minute session!) (Not really.)
Anyway. I was...reserved, this time. Partially because I was terrified the ultrasound would reveal that we were actually having a girl and the rest of this pregnancy would be doomed to be wracked with anxiety and guilt because I didn't want a girl, I really really didn't want a girl, even though everybody assumed I wanted a girl after having a boy but no, no, no, I did not. If I was going to be surprised with a girl, I preferred it to happen on delivery day, once the baby was in my arms and I could hold her and let the schmoopy baby love clichés wash away my white-knuckled terror over OH CRAP A GIRL. Finding out nine weeks ahead of time? Oh man, I cannot even imagine the dark pit of crazy I'd dig for myself in that much time.
I've also recently been struggling with some...ambivalence? I guess? about this pregnancy. Yes. This longed-for, wanted and sobbed-on-the-bathroom-floor-for pregnancy. I didn't feel ready. Or like I even wanted to be ready. After spending the first 12 weeks clutching the general baby-housing area and begging it NOT TO DIE, PLEASE DON'T DIE, I spent another 12 weeks throwing up or feeling like throwing up, and then just when I finally felt better and nicely, comfortably pregnant...BOOM. Third trimester. Incoming baby. Wild wrastlin' bobcat thrashin' around your insides and holy shit, that's a full-sized FOOT right there. I have socks that would FIT that foot upstairs somewhere.
I feel like I just peed on the stick, and suddenly there's this thing with feet jabbing me in the ribs and it's going to want boob and constant attention and diaper changes and someone's hair to throw up on. And I haven't exactly felt very maternal about that thing.
I would cuddle with Noah and feel extremely maternal about him, oh, that boy, my boy, my heart. And then I'd think about what it will be like once the baby is here -- how thin I'll be spread, how tired, how impatient. And I'd just...dread it.
I would work, like I always do, with the din of cartoons in the background, stopping and starting my sentences over and over to accommodate Noah's interruptions, to assure him that I heard him, yes, that's a very good observation, to jump up when requested and dance to a song or draw him an octagon or make a g-clef out of a twist tie. I would work furiously during naptime, reveling when I could hit the publish button for the last time of the day and hear nothing but sleepy silence from upstairs. Free time! Oh, dear lord, the luxury. I'd lay down to read or nap but the thoughts would creep in. Enjoy this before that ticking timebomb of timesuck in your belly gets here, because this will never happen again, ha ha ha.
I would put Noah to bed, already feeling spread thin and tired and ashamed at how I lost my temper while trying to cram his uncooperating body into pajamas. And then I'd think about this times two -- another stack of bedtime stories, another war over the toothbrush, another noodlely set of limbs running buck-naked down the hallway, thinking it's a game while Mama has fucking had enough of this shit, GET IN BED.
And yeah, I'd dread it.
I mean, I still do, sometimes. I know it's not going to be easy. I have no idea what my days and nights will be like in October -- whether I'll find them surprisingly tolerable or absolutely miserable or something else.
But I know. I remember. I look at that face and find incredible peace because it will be so, so very much worth it.