The 39th Week

Pregnancy, though loved by some moms, is generally not my favorite state of being. I value agility, energy, control of my bodily functions and emotions, and a quick, runner’s squat shoe-tie—all things that disappear when I’m lugging around a ball of baby.

Some moms glow with talk of how much they love to feel all the little kicks and movements of the tender babe growing inside of them. Hmmm. Yes, there is a nice little novelty to that feeling, but in general, I’d prefer to be able to roll over in bed without feeling as if someone is trying to pry my pelvis apart in the middle of the night. In general, I’d prefer to not feel as if a tiny fist is about to shoot out between my legs while I make a quick return at Banana Republic. In general, I’d prefer to have the baby strapped to my chest in a Baby Bjorn rather than head butting me in the spine or challenging the durability of my hips from within.

If you let me, I could bitch and moan about the pains and discomfort of pregnancy all night long, but that would be a waste of time and to do that would also be to discredit the intense gratitude I feel that I am able to get pregnant, to carry a baby full term and hoperfully, bring him safely into the world. I am quite aware that for some this is no small feat and for others, impossible. So, instead of going on and on about what is actually, in the grand scheme, relatively mild discomfort in the 39th week of pregnancy, let me focus on what is really driving me crazy. In an intensely wonderful sort of way.

The anticipation.

Not since I believed in Santa Claus have I gone to bed at night with such giddy excitement about what might happen during the night. Except, unlike Christmas where you get the child-like excitement for just one night, this is more like the world’s greatest Hanukkah minus the Menorah. I realize that not everyone goes into labor in the dead of night, but because I did with Finny, that is how I imagine it. Every night I close my eyes and wonder if something new and magical will wake me up. With Finny, I got up to use the bathroom and when I got back into bed, my water broke in a matter of minutes. So, every night, when I get up to pee, which happens at least three times a night now, I slowly crawl back into bed, barricade myself within my fortress of pillows and wait silently and anxiously for his arrival.

And every morning I wake up, shrug my shoulders and pour myself some Raisin Bran with some skim milk and a heavy sigh. I might seem disgruntled with the anxious waiting. I might seem crabby and impatient with the not-knowing. I might seem put-out by the possibility of missing that glorious 2010 tax break. But here’s the thing. Under the surface, under the heavy sighing and the dramatic eye-rolling and the exasperated head-shaking, I love the waiting. I adore the not-knowing. I am relishing in all the endless possibilities of how and when my baby will make his grand entrance. My body is writing a novel and every night I turn another page wondering with finger-biting anticipation how it will end…how it will begin. In this way, there is nothing greater than the not-knowing.

Maybe. Maybe it will be tonight. Maybe tonight, in a great flurry of inspiration, the dramatic plot will unfold and the story of this second born will reveal itself in all its wonder--new, original, a life story with a twist never been told before.

And then again, maybe it won’t. And tomorrow, I’ll sigh heavily over my bowl of Raisin Bran, roll my eyes dramatically over my cup of coffee and shake my head discouragingly as I choke down my vitamin. But don’t be fooled. It’s all for show.

Underneath it all, I am filling up with eager, giddy, secret joy that I have one more night to wonder what will happen when I turn that next page. One more night to wonder how this second pregnancy will end…how this next, extraordinary life will begin.