"Happy Birthday! Twenty-seven years old... do you feel any different?"
"Yes, I feel bloated, sea-sick, starving-yet-revolted-by-food, exhausted, nervous, and happy. You?"
I'm officially older than my parents were when they had me. A couple months ago, that idea was disappointing, but being pregnant right now it just feels right. It's really happening, finally.
My naked self is... something I need to get used to. Things have re-proportioned themselves. I'm the only one who would ever notice it as drastic. To husband I'm a tad softer... and a tad overstuffed in a certain area. But, Baby, you're making your presence known to me.
You're about an inch now, I think... like a big grape with fingers and toes. A California Raisin, perhaps? I heard it through the grapevine...
It goes against reason, but I know (as in feel, acknowledge, perceive, experience, recognize) that Baby Schultz is growing. Without a doubt or plausible reason, I know that this is occurring, and it is the most comforting gift I can have at this moment.
Miscarriage used to feel inevitable, a countdown, tick tock tick tock. Now that ticking only marks my impatience to see Baby Schultz again via ultrasound, to feel Baby moving, to meet Baby out here in the world. Is it dangerous to think less about miscarriage, to stop preparing myself for the terrible fall, to finally open the door to that often unwelcome guest -- optimism? Yes, I'm setting myself up for disaster. Love will do that to you.
Tick tock tick tock tick tock
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