Last year on my birthday I got a miniramp. During the following year I managed to sleep through the night while on vacation, watch zero episodes of The Voice, get norovirus, snowboard while pregnant, answer two clues on Jeopardy in question form and only sprain my ankle. I am also working my way into maternity clothes and trying really hard to grow the easiest garden vegetables possible.
However, last week I spent an approximate total of three and a half hours crying for unknown reasons, although almost all signs point to hormones and big life changes. Sprout does not appear to be ready to understand that hands are not for hitting and I do not appear to be ready for her to go to preschool or stop mommy-and-me swimming. There is a shift happening in our house, there is a life making her way here, we can all feel it even though no one can see her yet or know who she will be. We each are pulling her into our stories with so much blind love… and trust. She’s been ours all along and we’ve been her’s. 32 years on this earth and even a change I’ve yearned for every minute of those years, throws me.
In some ways, I see pregnancy like a really long line for a roller coaster. Sure, there are some entertaining things to see while you wait in nervous anticipation, like all the skulls and treasure maps and horny teenagers waiting for the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, but for crying-freaks-sake– I just want to ride the ride! What will it feel like and how will we be different when it’s over? I want to know now!
As selfless as it can be viewed, in some perspectives, pregnancy makes me feel like I’m wrapped in a blanket of narcissism like one of those hotdogs swaddled in bacon at a football party. I can’t stop thinking about who I am becoming. I want only love, pasteurized mango juice and for Scott to read my mind. No wonder we’ve both been so tired. Parenting while intoxicated with estrogen and progesterone has been difficult for my soft heart.