Okay, I’m really not on a mission to drive everyone batty by carrying on endlessly about my current delicate condition. But let’s face it: this is what’s going on for me at the moment, and it’s fairly monumental. So deal with it.
I had forgotten how difficult the first trimester can be – and it gets more difficult each time because: (a) my age continues to advance and I ain’t no spry spring chicken anymore, and (b) there are all those other young ‘uns to look after. Pregnancy symptoms are in full swing: nausea, splitting headaches, fatigue, insomnia. It could be worse; I’m not actually hurling, I just spend a good part of the day feeling woozy and carsick. This all bodes well for the pregnancy, I guess, but I confess that there are moments I just want to lie down and cry. Or at least nap. But the existing spawn won’t hear of it. So I muddle through the days, counting the minutes until I can crawl between my cozy flannel sheets and (try to) sleep.
In the midst of all this misery, however, a miracle is blooming. I don’t mean miracle in any religious sense – you know me, atheist to the bone. The miracle of life, though, if I may be so sappy. I noticed yesterday that my belly is poking out a little already (okay, I never did completely lose the bulge from the last few, but there’s a definite transformation taking place), the button of my jeans is digging uncomfortably into my skin, and when I stepped on the scale this morning I discovered that I’m up three pounds (I finally shed about 12 pounds during the early part of this year and got myself back down to where I was when Michael and I got married ten years ago; I now weigh more than I have in six months). It’s hitting me: this is for real. There is a tiny little baby growing inside me – something I thought I’d never experience again. And despite my shock and bewilderment, and despite my current state of discomfort, it’s all coming back to me what a privilege this is.