This week I’m 28 weeks pregnant.
Only about 11 weeks to go (I’m not sure who came up with that 9 month myth, but can’t we stop teaching it? Really, it gets pregnant women all excited at month 7 and then they realize in actuality you’re pregnant for closer to 10 months and BLAH) and I can’t even put words to how excited I am to have this baby.
It’s interesting, how your thought processes can change regarding the tiny creature growing in your body over a span of 3/4 of a year.
I imagine for each person it’s different, but I know for me, the first three months were definitely not a happy jaunt through pink clouds and fields of daisies. I wasn’t euphoric over being pregnant, although I wish I had been able to be. I was nervous and over protective of myself. I tripped and fell from a curb while running for a tram around week five and called Piet in tears because I was prepared for the worst, which never happened. I was terribly distracted by the fear of losing what we’d been trying to have since our wedding. I approached and passed week 12 feeling skeptical and still bracing myself for the worst until I hit week 14 and finally began to gain some confidence in my body’s ability to do this whole pregnancy thing successfully.
Also around week 12 I realized I was terrified of labor and especially the thought of an episiotomy. I have a mild bleeding disorder and had always made the assumption that I’d have to have a C-section, but apparently the baby has temporarily cured the disorder (I was surprised when my initial clotting results came back normal but the obgyn did some research and it turns out that pregnant women with my mutation of the disorder often create more of the clotting factor that is usually missing in the blood) so natural childbirth became the most likely option for me. Which meant that my assumption of a controlled, organized, possibly even scheduled delivery flew right out the window and I realized I’d be doing it how most other women do: unexpected, unplanned, and off the cuff.
You know, the sort of situation that usually makes me twitch and get horrendously cranky and actually slows down my reaction time because I’m mentally floundering around trying to figure out a way to feel organized in a completely disorganized situation.
And the thought of an episiotomy? It was like nails on the chalkboard of my nether region. I couldn’t even imagine what sort of barbarian would put a sharp edge to my lady bits, and afterwards with the stitches and the itching of healing and the burning of peeing and ohmylordpleasedon’tcutme!!!!!!
But then around 18 weeks or so I started feeling movement. Suddenly the little smudge we’d seen the first few months became something more tangible, something that I could actually feel and that I found reassuring. And at 20 weeks the tangible little turnip had a face with eyes and a mouth and testicles and he wasn’t just a smudge or a turnip, he was a “he.” He was “the baby,” “the offspring,” “our child.”
And I found I wasn’t afraid of labor anymore. I didn’t feel the need to enroll in breathing classes or instructional lessons on how to give birth or anything like that (not to say I won’t, but I was obsessed with finding classes before and now I’m sort of indifferent). I found myself thinking of baby clothes and bedsheets and then my hands began drifting more and more to my belly which had started to grow. I started giving a mental good morning to my midsection when I felt the first thump of the day.
And last night, while sitting on the couch and watching some television, when my little passenger (because he feels so much more him now then simply an extension of me) began rolling around, I really felt that my hand pressed to my belly wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted to be holding him in my arms, hearing his voice and his breathing, seeing his face. I wanted to share him 100% with his daddy and call him by his name (something we’ve agreed not to do until he’s actually born) and see if he was hungry or sleepy or just wanted to be held and cuddled.
He has become so very much more than the smudge he started out to be.
He’s my baby and I’m aching to hold him and be his mother.
There’s really no fear anymore, of labor or being cut or feeling pain or contractions or the unknown in general. There’s no uncertainty of “can I really do this?”
I know I can do it.
I want to do it more than anything else in the world right now. I’m hoping that the next 11 weeks fly by because I can think of nothing I want more than to hold our son for the very first time.