I'm pretty certain that at some point today I am going to either a.) cry or b.) have a panic attack (or at least a sissified version of one). That stinks considering I haven't done either in a couple of weeks.
Today at my weekly trip to the doctor (ah, the fresh air, the morning radio, the speed of the cars zooming by on the highway, interacting with people I don't know, the covert trip to Starbucks on the way home--hey, it's been 6 weeks since I stepped inside a Starbucks), he actually started talking about the end of my pregnancy. After the poking and the measuring, we went to his office and he said, "So we're probably going to get you in there at 38 weeks".
Wow. I'm assuming they aren't expecting my body to spontaneously start labor at 38 weeks, so I guess that means they are going to induce me. And then, I will have a baby. This is when the tears and sissy panic attack start.
Obviously, I know rationally that at some point, the little man in my belly is coming out and is going to be the little man in my arms. That is, of course, the moment that all pregnant ladies wait for and dream about. But there's something very different about the dream and the impending reality.
I mean, I'm going to be responsible for another human being's life...and yes, I know that I am responsible for said human's life already, but in a much more passive way and let's face it, the team of doctors I have monitoring my every drop of pee and every movement of my cervix are way more responsible for my son's well-being right now than I am...I am an incubator that takes prenatal vitamins, avoids alcohol and deli meat.
But in fourteen weeks, oh...my....god...in fourteen weeks, somehow or other this baby is coming out of my body and they will hand him over to me and stop offering to take care of me or him!! I don't think my perinatologist is going to need to see me every other week once he's born, right? Damn.
So apart from stuff like the bliss of feeling a little foot kicking my bladder and the contentment of rubbing my expanding belly, I am now also starting to realize how finite pregnancy is. And the truth is, even with the boredom of bedrest, I love, like I've never loved anything before, being pregnant. As much as I am sure I will love being a mother even more, the thought of not being pregnant in fourteen weeks sends me into little girly fits of tears.
I have heard that the last few weeks of pregnancy are so uncomfortable that most women are begging to have the baby removed from their bodies by whatever means possible. I think perhaps that is nature's way of erasing (at least temporarily) this pregnancy bliss I have right now. I hope so. But I guess between now and then I am going to try to soak up every last second of "glow". Even if I can only glow at a forty-five degree angle...