Early in this pregnancy, I always knew exactly how pregnant I was. I couldn’t help it. I’m eight weeks and four days, I would think. I’m 11 weeks and five days.
While I’m no less absurdly excited about meeting this baby and discovering life as a mum, as a parent, I can no longer keep up with the rapidly flipping pages of the calendar. Just now, I spent a few minutes trying to figure out how far along I am. Am I 34 weeks? I thought. No, I can’t be, that would make me full term in less than three weeks. Wait, would it? Can any of this be right?
Why yes, I AM 34 weeks. And two days.
And there is a very strong little person sliding and poking around in my belly. His movements are visible from across a room, and they are so powerful as to be distracting.
I wonder what he’ll look like, and then later who he’ll become.
Will he have my husband’s easy temper? (I hope so.) Will he be sensitive, like I am? (Oh, I hope not overly so!) What about traits his parents have in common – our obsessions with logical outcomes, with fairness – will he be like us, or someone else altogether?
I can’t wait to meet this little person, this little abstract miracle I’m carrying around in my belly.