Five weeks. Five weeks until an ending and a beginning. Our last child. Or, at least, the last one I’ll grow inside of me.
We haven’t pulled out a stitch of baby gear. Sometime this week, I actually have to make a list of what made the move from Dimples and what we dumped. An ultrasound photo is on the fridge. I– once again– can no longer see my vagina or toes. I flipped through the baby name book… but we aren’t those people who can pick a name beforehand. I have to see who is inside and take the few days in the hospital to commit to what we’ll call them.
While we were very happy to have another, it came on the cusp of buying a house with three bedrooms. It comes with the problem of finagling childcare for one more. Stretching the existing budget and still trying to live on a budget that allows for things we enjoy– dinner out once a week, extracurricular activities for the kids, a night away or a vacation, legal fees I annual incur with my Ex, etc. Needing a car to accommodate four kids instead of three. This joy is also an adjustment.
Historically, I make babies that look like their Dad. I do a lot of work for very little initial reward. None have my dark hair nor really any of my features. I wonder if this baby will be different. This whole pregnancy has been different. I am lucky to say, I have never struggled to become pregnant like some of my loved ones. My pregnancies are typically without much fanfare or complications. This last one is perhaps the most uncomfortable and the most I’m ever felt pregnant. We had asthma that lingered for six weeks pretty miserably. My baby bump got in the way a lot sooner than it did with Miss M or Dimples– even though this baby measures smaller than his/her sisters. Sex isn’t as enjoyable. I swear this baby has decided to sit heavily on my insides so that all I feel is contrasting pressure instead of delicious pleasure. I have varicose veins that always look worse the last three months of baby growing. I usually get bloody noses…. this time I haven’t yet. Maternity pants never fit me right and regular jeans are now a stretch– so I look like a frumpy mess half the time. It is a small annoyance that I wish was different. But this pregnancy is the hardest and different than the girls. If the little one who joins us ends up being a boy… I’m going to chalk it up to the male gender being a pain in the ass to the women in their life from day one. And pray that Match knows what the heck to do with a penis… because I’ve been raising girls for seven years… I have no idea what to do with a baby boy.
Match. If we make it the rest of our lifetime together, I think I picked a good one, guys. It is hard to know how any relationship will pan out… but here is the thing– the few nights I’ve lied on the couch, miserable and bitchy because I’m feeling whale-like and have an alien being kicking my insides… he still looks at me like I’m wonderful and pretty and like he’d enjoy a good roll in the sack with me. I may not admit it, but it is nice feeling. That you are loved and desired even though you wore a messy bun in your hair all week, coughed so much you peed your pants earlier in the day, and have no idea if you have properly shaved your bikini line for the past month. This is a type of grace. And I am very grateful to have it in my life.
Five weeks left.