It seems so impossible.
I am a mere two weeks from the third trimester, the baby is getting pretty darn big (or so it feels by the size of my belly and the strength of his kicks), and some days it feels so incredibly impossible that my husband and I will actually become parents this time around.
Everything feels so much the same; in the wee hours and the moments alone, I can’t help but worry it’s another cruel joke.
My doctor tells me they’ll be doing some extra monitoring here soon, and I wonder (a bit cynically), just what they will be looking for. Michael was a perfect example of a perfect pregnancy — he passed every test with flying colors — right up until he wasn’t. And then no one could tell us why. None of their tests and monitors showed squat.
Just like now: perfect baby, perfect pregnancy.
I feel so guilty and shamed for my inability to truly get excited, as carelessly and unadulterated as the exuberant strangers who pry into my mother-to-be status — but I feel overshadowed by the knowledge that this wonderful, amazing, beautifully precious thing can end right as it is supposed to begin. And it doesn’t help that so much of this journey is so much the same. (Periodically I find myself calling this baby by Michael’s name, and that really bothers me. I know it happens, especially when you’ve had more than one child, but psychologically I need the distinction.) I’m gritting my teeth and moving forward regardless, I am twisting my own arm into making plans because I can’t put them off any longer. And it’s all happening so fast and yet not fast enough, and I am exhausted with wanting to fliptothelastpagealready so I can see how the story ends.
I just pray it isn’t a waste of time.
I pray there is a point, and that it involves not being childless — again — at the end of September.
I pray this little fella keeps kicking and squirming and fighting as hard as he can.
Dear God, help me get through these final weeks.