My expression here seems to scream "I hate pregnancy" but really I hate early mornings and my long commute. And, fine, I'm kind of over pregnancy too, but I'm not looking longingly towards any bottles of Castor oil (yet). I'm actually nostalgic for it all, even though it's not over yet, if that makes any sense. See, it's a very real possibility that this boy of ours will be an only child. We're not willing to make any declarations or so-help-me promises, but we're both kind of OK with just one. (And, in case you were wondering, no, I don't need to hear your opinion on only children; big thanks anyway.) We're of the opinion that we're not going to make that decision -- one way or the other -- any time soon, but where some people are absolutely adamant about providing a sibling for their child, we sort of like the idea of a smaller family unit. With that idea comes these last few weeks potentially being the last few weeks period.
I'm ready to meet him -- we're all so ready to meet him -- and I'm ready to begin my journey towards a thinner, less bison-esque me and I'm insanely ready to see what color hair our collective gene pool has granted him and I'm ready to sleep on my stomach and indulge in a glass OR TWO of something adult and I'm ready for some grilled shrimp and a Diet Coke and I don't think I could ever be more ready to say goodbye to acid reflux ONCE AND FOR ALL, YOU STUPID ACID-Y BASTARD. But, all those things means the kicks and rolls and movements will be gone, too. I know what's to come is a million times cooler. I know I'm going to love having him beside me so much more than inside me, but those kicks, man, they never got old. I heard they would, I prepared for them to. I even joked a time or two that he was playing soccer with my bladder and it was just so annoying. But, you know, it wasn't. There is not much of pregnancy I'd readily endorse. There was so much that put me through the wringer. There were actual times I didn't know I'd make it this far. There were times Mike was fairly certain he wouldn't make it this far. But last night we were laying on the couch together -- with Molly at our feet -- and watching a surprisingly interesting "Million 2 One" and our boy was going nuts, kicking and punching and I had my hand on the belly, feeling it all from both inside and out and Mike had his hand on top of mine, feeling it all too, and we were laughing at the thought of what he was doing in there (working on his "jazz hands," trying to get comfortable before going to sleep, dancing to his iPod). It was one of those perfect, beautiful moments. My boy, my guy, my girl, our DVR. All the most important things in life.
If you've never been pregnant and you ask me one day what to expect, I'm going to go ahead and bypass all the other stuff, I'm just going to let that stuff all slide. I'm instead going to tell you there will be moments of sheer perfection you didn't know could exist in life. I'm going to tell you I miss it. And, believe me, won't you, because I won't be lying, not even a little bit.
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Housekeeping note: Comments seem to be a bit off today. I'm receiving notifications when you comment, but they're not showing up. I assume Typepad is pissed off at something this afternoon, but who knows what. Go ahead and comment anyway and let's just assume they'll show up eventually!