The early weeks of pregnancy are fragile—and confusing. Here, the answers to your questions.
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So. It's a week later. And what do you know--still here, still pregnant. I've decided not to feel too silly about this. Right? Right.
The good thing about still being pregnant is that the ensuing week has bought us the opportunity to get a lot done. The cabin is really almost totally finished--I've even worked in there for a couple of afternoons. (Finish work is dragging on, but at this point it's literally window dressing.) It's a glorious space, and exciting enough to make me fantasize about having the chance to write in there once I've completed my maternity leave.
What else? I continue to work, if slowly and not quite as efficiently as I did that first day I heard I was 1 cm dilated. I'm also keeping the house neat and tidy in a way that's a little bit foreign to me--rather than insane bursts of all-out cleansing war every month or so, I'm loading the dishwasher as we dirty dishes; I'm ridding the fridge of old moldy nasty food whenever I happen to notice it; I'm doing laundry throughout the week. Why? Because I have the sense that various friends and relatives might be here any minute, and without my blathering rationales to stand between them and the reality of our messy house. It's nice, this having a semi-clean home. (This may be the last time I experience this sensation for, I don't know, years, so I'm going to allow myself to gloat about it.)
The best thing about still being pregnant--while expecting to deliver any minute--has been the cushion of time it's given all of us to get used to the idea of this baby's imminent arrival. Sylvia is a little over-used to the idea, getting more impatient every day, or so she thinks--but meanwhile, she's pretending to be a baby herself, needs to be carried, and tearfully asking when the baby is going to come out. I just took a break from writing this to help her fall asleep, and I loved that I could do so, so simply, just being with her because she wanted being with, no other child crying for attention or nursing. I know that soon enough, I might not be there as readily for her.
The flip side
I've finally reached that stage where people are no longer calling my pregnant body "cute." I'm definitely still one of the lucky ones--I seem to be getting off without any edema, crazy skin rashes, third nipples, or any of the other especially rude go-alongs third trimesters can have. But the belly is in a reality of its own at this point. The pictures I've been posting here really don't do it justice. I've tried to do better this time.
So you can see that every time I leave the house and enter polite society, I'm a target. I'm really not as anti-social as I make it sound on this blog--really, often I want attention and conversation when I leave the house. Just not... now. Because all of the conversations are about one thing and one thing only. I'm trying to stay calm about the birth and how soon it is and how it turns out that I'm the one who gets to do it. My controlling self is struggling with the not-knowingness required of late pregnancy. I don't know when I'm about to experience this very big deal event, and being reminded of my lack of knowledge creates just the tiniest bit of panic. Tiny. Teeny-tiny. So tiny that once I'm back in my head, I can calm down very quickly. But many teeny-tiny bits of panic can still add up.
I've been waking up early each morning, getting used to it still being dark at six. I lay there and am grateful for not having gone into labor in the middle of the night, so I can feel as rested as I do, and because there's always comfort in things being the same. But I'm also a little disappointed. How sweet it would be to wake up to the sights and sounds of our new baby.
Maybe by next week, I'll be able to tell you just what that's like!
Join writer Emily Bloch each week as she chronicles her pregnancy.