On Monday, I will have reached the 29 week mark of this pregnancy.
According to “the experts” (aka Dr. Google), by now my baby should be about 2.5 pounds
and the size of a butternut squash.
She and I will both experience rapid weight gain. (Oh yay…)
As she gets too big to move easily, I’ll feel more jabs from little knees and elbows.
And-oh yeah-breathing will become more difficult as she takes up more room and my lungs have less room.(Double yay…)
Varicose veins, constipation and heartburn are to be expected. (Triple yay…)
With my first I read those things religiously.
With the second, I occasionally dropped by my favorite pregnancy websites.
Then there was the miscarriage-when I felt a little guilty for not reading those weekly tidbits.
Knowing that it wouldn’t have made a difference, but logic abandoning me and thinking
“If I’d read, I would have known not to ___.”
With my third, I was too scared to look ahead, worried that I might not make it to whatever milestone came next.
With this baby, I haven’t (until writing this post) visited the first “what to expect” website.
I don’t have to read it because I know it.
I know the drill…
And yet I’m still surprised when walking a flight of stairs leaves me winded,
Or when I go to put on my socks and realize that I can’t reach my feet,
Or I pick up Asa, only to realize that it wasn’t such a bright idea.
I know the drill…
And yet I’m still amazed when I feel the kicks and bumps and knocks from within.
There are still moments when I lie in bed, watching the remote dance on my belly.
Still, just like I did with the other pregnancies, I close my eyes and I dream of this little person tucked away,
hidden from us all.
And I realize that I technically have 11 more weeks-
Which sounds like a lifetime and an eye’s blink all at the same time.
And I see people who announced their pregnancy only weeks before I found out about mine…
And they are having their babies, or reaching the weekly appointments stage, or on bedrest for the duration.
And that? Makes my heart speed up a bit.
It scares me a little.
Not like the first time, when I worried that I wouldn’t know what to do.
Or the second time, when I worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle two very young children.
Or the third time, when I worried that I would go into labor on Christmas Day and miss all the festivities at home.
This time…I worry about this being the end.
Of knowing that this is it. The end. No more babies.
Of knowing that no matter how much I try to savor it and soak it all in, that I’ll forget.
Of knowing that no matter how careful I am to document and remember, some memories won’t stand the test of time.
(Kind of like my grandmother’s voice. I try to hear it. I know it’s there somewhere, but I can’t hear it anymore.)
So I have 10-ish weeks.
And they’ll fly by, as time is wont to do.
I can’t wait to hold her in my arms, to smell her, to see her face.
But this time (for the first time) it’s the journey, not the end that fascinates me.
Maybe this time I’ll actually make it to 40 weeks.
(Although I may be the only pregnant woman wishing for that…
And only time will tell if I’ll still be singing that same tune come February.)
I’m taking the scenic route this go ’round, and I couldn’t be happier.
Here’s to 11 more weeks!