Week 10

We're already somewhere around week 10 (or even 11, by my calculations, but these things are always a shot in the dark -- apologies for the unintended double entendre there, but my pregnant brain is really suffering for want of original thoughts and ideas lately), and I realized that this poor little guy or gal isn't really getting the attention he or she deserves.  I did let out a not-unhappy scream and receive a huge hug from Mando when we first got the positive results, but our immediate follow-up reaction was:  uh-oh.  (Anika, if you and your future brother or sister are reading this, please don't use this in an argument to belt out, "ha ha they like me better!" because right now you're screaming your head off and wiping snot off your face and putting up a big show because you want my attention, and frankly it isn't very becoming.  But you know I'm about to hug you anyway).

Ok.  Now that you're on my lap, we can resume.

As I was saying, we are having to try to be as excited as appropriate with this baby.  Mostly because we're both just so exhausted.  Ani is still waking up four times per night and still refusing to sleep anywhere but our bed, and Mando's work is basically like a second baby.  And then there's the fatigue of pregnancy, which is unlike any other fatigue I've experienced, including mono and hiking up ridiculously high mountain peaks and running a marathon and staying up for three days working on a proposal.  It's good news for the local delivery guys, though, because by the end of the day I am absolutely unable to stand up and cook anything.  (Thank you, Viet Noodle, for your spicy noodle soups.  Still not a substitute for Regent Thai's drunken noodle, but I'll take what I can get).

To give this little one its full due, I want to record some of what I'm feeling and thinking so that they can know that we loved them the moment we saw that little pink X on the pregnancy test.  Because, believe it or not, we did.

-- I am picturing you (I have to admit it, as a little boy -- your Grandpa Jim and Grandma Gloria think that you're a boy) playing in the living room with Anika, her reading a book to you, or you two sharing a snack, or opening presents by the early morning light under the Christmas tree in your little matching pj's and fuzzy slippers, and honestly it makes me tear up (thank you, pregnancy hormones).

-- Sometimes I even forget that you're there, and then I feel a bout of nausea, or my hunger hits me like a mack truck, or my head starts to pound, or my jeans feel a bit tight around the middle, and then I rub my belly and picture the ultrasound image of you, a perfect little bean, with your arms and legs tucked into your body, and I can hardly believe that you're doubling in size every week at this point and that your little heart is beating at 170/minute and your little fingernails and toenails are already starting to grow.  I wish that I could watch your DNA codes unfold into the you that you're becoming, but all you can give me is hormonal changes, bloating, and gas.  Hey, thanks for trying, at least.  I already know that being a mom isn't exactly what you'd call glamorous.

-- I am watching your dad play soccer with your sister (he kicks the ball to her, she laughs and pushes it back; he does tricks where the ball rolls onto his back and flips to his foot, and she giggles with delight), and my imagination takes me to yet another Hallmark moment where you're all in the backyard playing while I'm getting an at-home massage and a pedicure (hey, it's a dream, right?)

-- I can remember that newborn smell, and how new babies can just fold right into themselves and melt into your arms, and I can't wait to hold you like that and smell your newborn smell and enjoy you at that moment that is so fleeting it's over before we know it.

-- Labor.  Oh, boy.  Not wanting to go through that again.  Hoping against hope that I can avoid induction, and avoid being tethered to all those drugs-in-bags and stuck in an uncomfortable bed that makes my butt fall asleep and forced to watch Joy Behar talk show re-runs while the pain rushes over and around me for two days while I dilate not. one. measly. centimeter.  And please, for the love of god, please help me avoid that 4 1/2 hours of pushing that I was forced to go through with your sister.  She was so smashed up that your dad was convinced she had Down's Syndrome.  We had nurses come into the room and tsk and shake their heads at me and say, "I heard about you."  Please don't make me a pity case again.  I promise if you do that, I might just love you better (ok, not true, but could you try to convince yourself of that at least during the labor process?)