Becoming Mother

A book and a blog for first-time mothers

Tag: third trimester

41 weeks, 3 days: Ranting and Raving

Forget anxiety and fear of the imminent pain of childbirth.

I’m so beyond being nervous or afraid of what comes next.

Now, I’m just pissed. I’m downright angry.

If I want to give birth in the birthing center that I’ve chosen, I have to give birth by 41 weeks, 6 days. That gives me until Saturday. After that, I’ll have to go to the regular maternity ward and play by their rules.

Just like last time.

Which is what I was trying to avoid.

I will literally take whatever contractions come my way if it means this is the last day that I’m pregnant. 

F— this pregnancy! I’m so over it!

I will die pregnant. I know it. Labor will never start. Ever. And I’ll be that one crazy case where the pregnant woman just dies because her body splits open because the baby keeps growing. 

I simply cannot believe this has not happened yet. What is wrong with me? Why? WHY?

The most frustrating thing? I’ve had four times when contractions have started and then just stopped.

And I’m not talking Braxton-Hicks contractions. I’m talking full-on, labor contractions. Sometimes 4 to 8 minutes apart for several hours. They last long enough for me to get excited, to gather my things, to think about plans for the rest of the day that include going to the hospital.

And then? Nothing.

They just stop.

WHYYYYYY??????

And then, I get this email from Babycenter.com.

1-week-old

Just shoot me now.

Are you kidding me, Babycenter? I never told you my baby was born. So you just automatically send these emails? Are you trying to piss me off? And what if my baby were stillborn?

This is the worst. I despise living in this constant state of suspension. I don’t tend to be a control freak. My job as a teacher requires me to constantly practice the art of flexibility.

But this is too much.

You think it feels like a long time since Trump became president on January 20th? Tired of processing bullet after bullet that he’s shooting into American democracy?

Now, imagine adding the additional mental burden of realizing at the end of every day that you will, once again, have to find a way to sleep with an enormous pregnant belly, tossing and turning every 45 minutes until the sun rises.

And being pumped full with as much estrogen as a non-pregnant woman has in three years of her life.

February 2nd is Groundhog Day. And how perfectly appropriate. I feel like I’ve been living my own personal Groundhog Day since January 22nd.

So, I’m at the end of my rope. If the point of me waiting this long to have a baby was to teach me a lesson in patience, I’m beyond that lesson. I’m not learning anything anymore.

Now, I’m just pissed.

41 Weeks: The Answer is No. And Yes.

No, I haven’t had the baby.

No, I’m not going to ask to be induced.

No, the baby doesn’t seem to be huge. Just average-sized.

Yes, the baby is healthy. So am I.

Yes, I’m positive they calculated my due date correctly.

Yes, I’ve tried that. And that. And that.

Yes, I’m losing my mind.

Yes, this is eating into my maternity leave now.

Yes, I’ve had some signs that I’m getting ready.

But no.

No real, regular contractions.

keep-calm-i-m-still-pregnant-2

***

This last week has been an interesting combination of nice and awful.

Nice, because my mom is here, helping with our daughter, running errands, and just helping the hours pass. With Scrabble and Penny Press word puzzles.

Nice, because I haven’t had to work. My daily responsibility is to get my daughter to daycare. And take walks.

But it has also been awful.

Starting with the fact that this last week was the first week of Trump’s presidency. What a week… Can anyone process all the garbage that’s coming out of the White House right now? I feel like every day this week, there has been something else that threatens fundamental American principles, values, and norms. (Please tell me I’m not the only one.)

And then there’s the thought that my mind returns to about every other minute of the day: I’m still pregnant.

My mind spins on and on.

Why in the hell is this baby still in there? Am I not walking enough? Am I not eating enough? Is it because I’m drinking decaf coffee? Is it because I have some undiagnosed hormonal imbalance? Is it because I’m 35?

Oh, you’ll go into labor earlier with your second one, they all assured me. The second time is much easier. Your body still has the muscle memory from the last birth. It will happen a lot sooner and faster this time.

Ha.

Ha.

Maybe I should have had my membranes swept at 39 weeks to speed the process along. Maybe that’s the reason I went into labor earlier with my first child. My doctor swept my membranes–without my consent, might I add–at 38 weeks. It still took me until 40 weeks and 4 days to go into labor though, and another day to actually give birth.

So I ask myself, What is so different about this time?

I keep comparing this whole experience to what happened to me with my first baby. I can’t help it. I’m looking for patterns and signs, aligning them with last time, and then making estimates.

I’ve lost six pounds of water weight. Should be another two days.

Or

The baby has moved down further. Probably just another week.

Then I blow past my estimates. Over and over again, I’m disappointed.

Every morning I wake up, and I tell myself to start fresh. I go for a walk in the darkness of the morning. Enya sings to me and I feel understood.

Winter has come too late
Too close beside me.
How can I chase away
All these fears deep inside?

I’ll wait the signs to come.
I’ll find a way
I will wait the time to come.
I’ll find a way home.

I tell myself that today is a new day. Today might be the day. I tell myself that tomorrow, maybe, we’ll be through this birth.

I tell myself to imagine my future self, reaching back through time, shaking me by the shoulders, telling me to not wish away these last moments of pregnancy.

I tell myself that once this birth is over, I will likely mourn its passing.

I tell myself to enjoy this time with my mom.

I tell myself that all I have right now is this moment.

This day.

I tell myself that even though my mind craves the certainty of falling back onto my previous experiences, in my heart I know this birth will be nothing like last time.

I tell myself, Just one more afternoon.

Then, Just one more night.

Then, Just one more morning.

Today could be the day.

40 Weeks, 4 days: Mountain Climbing

Baby,

I think we’re close.

It feels like we’ve been climbing together for so long.

At first, it was a gradual slope, one that I could walk without much of a problem (although–who am I kidding–the nausea was tough). I brought provisions along for the both of us. Assurances that we would make it through this journey together, whole.

But that slope became a hill. My heart picked up speed, so did yours. The further we climbed, the more of my supplies I left behind. I held on to things that I thought you might need. Because I knew you were fragile, so tiny and dependent. I knew I was tough and I could go without.

But now that hill is a mountain, so steep and imperceptibly tall in front of us. When does it end? I’ve let go of even more, hoping it will make us just a little lighter. My hands can’t find any holds in the rock. I feel like I’m climbing blind, hoping that my fingers will feel what my eyes cannot.

mountain

But now, our companions will stay behind as we go forward. They will cheer for us from a safe distance, while we trudge on.

Alone. Together.

What comes next is the hardest part.

Now that the oxygen is thin,

Now that we’re at our heaviest,

our achiest,

our tiredest,

Now that we’ve given up all that we can,

I will have to reach down and pull out that last bit of strength and will

For the both of us

Because you are depending on me

I will lower my head, reach my hands up into the darkness, and feel for the ledge

For you

I will pull, pull, pull

Even though my body tells me that it will break

And my mind tells me that I will fall

My spirit will say, Yes.

Yes.

Now.

You’re ready.

Open your eyes.

Week 40: Ticking Time Bomb

Tick, tick, tick.

I knew it was possible that I would go beyond my due date again. I went to 40 weeks and 5 days with my first child.

But who really wants to believe that they’ll be put through that again?

But, here we are.

clock

So what do you do when you’re past your due date?

Hand off responsibility of raising your children. Let Grandma take center stage. Send your kid to daycare without an ounce of guilt. If you can’t do either of those, turn on the TV and embrace the zombification of your kids because it’s preserving your sanity.

Walk. Because it’s the only exercise you can really handle at this point. And moving at least 30 minutes a day gives you a better chance of going into labor.

Do yoga. Practice your breathing. Get in some good down-dog and butterfly poses.

Lie on your side. Because it takes the weight out of your back and pelvis. Which now feel like jelly.

Avoid people. Or at least the people with whom you have to engage in small talk. You don’t want to constantly think about the fact that you’re beyond your due date. But it’s the only thing on everyone else’s mind. Don’t get pissed about it. They either can’t help themselves or they don’t know what else to talk about with you.

Read. Start books that you don’t mind if you don’t finish. Because you probably won’t.

Nap. This is the best part. By far. Especially since you’re only sleeping in 45 minutes increments throughout the night now. Because you need to pee, or shift sides, or eat at 3:00 a.m. (Because, of course, the baby is hungry again.)

Google the probability of going into labor on this particular day. I liked this website. I currently have a 57.93% chance of going into labor today. Tomorrow, the probability increases to 61.79%.

Do puzzles. This one is driving me nuts right now. But I’ve got a feeling I’m ready to bust this case wide open.

puzzle

Write. Whatever you want. Without much thought. Because it’s mostly about passing time and not so much about imparting words of wisdom.

Be still. Honor the beauty of silence and suspension. Because soon the day will be full of crying and cooing, dishes and laundry, visitors and friends.

Let go of the perpetual need to accomplish. Because soon “accomplishing” will have much, much different definitions than it does today.

 

Bump Pictures

Last week, I feared that I had just blown by my target weight gain of 40 pounds.

Although I had been gaining about 1 pound per week throughout the last trimester, in the last two weeks, I gained 8 pounds.

But, it turns out, a lot of that was water weight. Now that labor is drawing near and the baby is moving into position, I’ve now shed 6 pounds of that water weight.

My doctor tells me that this is going to be an average-sized baby, right around 7.5 pounds. I believe that.

Now, I’m not much of a selfie person.

Nor am I much of a sharing-pictures-of-my-stomach person.

But this is the last time I’m going to have a baby. And I have a feeling my future self would have wanted me to have pictures.

So here is a synopsis.

bump-pictures-2

It’s hard to tell in the pictures, but this baby is pretty much wrapped around me. It is head-down, butt usually resting on my left side while its feet push out of my right side.

Charming position.

People sometimes ask me if I have a feeling about what this baby is like.

Yes. Yes, I do.

One word: Feisty.

Week 39: What We Learn From Pain

I’ve been thinking a lot about pain this week.

Probably because I know that, very soon, I’ll be in the presence of the Mother of all Pains.

Labor.

I bow in its presence.

What’s that saying? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know?

In that sense, labor is a devil that I know. But let’s be honest. It’s been three years since we’ve spent any time together. And having known labor, I’m left speechless.

I know its power.

I know that it will require every last piece of my strength and my will.

And I know that won’t be enough. I’ll have to go deeper into myself, into my reserves that I haven’t had to use for years, just to hold on to the belief that I’ll make it through.

Because that’s the only way that I can transform from a doubtful, anxious human being to a powerful vehicle that brings new life into this world.

That’s what labor does. It transforms you.

***

This weekend, I was reminded of just how transformative pain can be.

In Glennon Doyle Melton’s memoir, Love Warrior, she says this about pain:

What if in skipping the pain, I was missing my lessons?

Instead of running away from my pain, was I supposed to run toward it? …

Maybe instead of slamming the door on pain, I need to throw open the door wide and say, “Come in. Sit down. And don’t leave until you’ve taught me what I need to know.”

love-warrior

Glennon spends most of her life running from and numbing pain through bulimia and binge-drinking. When her husband confesses that he has been cheating on her for years, she is thrown into a crisis that she feels she cannot solve on her own. She finally enters therapy so she can figure out how to pull herself and her family through their quagmire.

In the most poignant moment of her memoir, she finds herself in a hot yoga class. While other women express that their intentions for their yoga practice are to “embrace loving-kindness” or to “radiate sunlight to all creation,” Glennon says that her intention is to “stay on this mat and make it through whatever is about to happen without running out of here.”

As she lies on her mat, she allows the pain of her life to overwhelm her. She sees memories of all the things that have hurt her and she imagines all the terrible things that might still happen. While everyone else participates in the yoga session, she lies on her mat, weeping. She allows herself to feel all the pain that she has been running from and numbing herself from feeling.

At the end of the session, her yoga teacher tells her,

That–what you just did? That is the Journey of the Warrior.

***

I cried when I read that. Because it is exactly how I felt after I gave birth the first time.

I felt that I had just confronted all of my weaknesses and flaws, all of my fears and failures, all of my doubts.

And I had come out on the other side.

Alive. Whole. Transformed.

Before giving birth, I feared that I wasn’t strong. That I was too weak. Too inexperienced. That I wouldn’t know my own body more than my doctors. That when push came to shove, I would get out of the way and let someone better handle the hard stuff.

I feared that that’s how it would probably be when I became a mother. That I would smile in deference and listen to everyone else who knew better than me about what was best for my child.

That I wouldn’t cause problems by raising my concerns.

That I would continue to be “the good little girl.”

That when my time would come, I would numb the pain so I could listen to the doctors respectfully, follow directions like a rational person, and push on command.

Even though I so desperately wanted to be that woman who wouldn’t be squashed and silenced by norms…

I suspected in my heart that that’s exactly who I was.

Another woman who would believe the limitations that everyone else had decided for her.

***

In her memoir, Glennon echoes similar thoughts.

I realize that I have allowed myself to see it all and feel it all and I have survived…

I’d been fully human for an hour and a half and it had hurt like hell. It had almost killed me, but not quite. That “not quite” part seems incredibly important.

Accepting pain rather than running from pain is not a mainstream sentiment in our culture. We’ve built an entire culture around numbing pain. Not just through medication, but through addiction. To drugs. To alcohol. To possessions.

And addiction to distractions.

Smartphones and constant Internet access have helped to create these personal mini-universes, free from empty moments in which we might otherwise feel boredom or pain or discomfort.

But what is the human experience when we don’t allow ourselves to feel pain, whether it’s physical or emotional?

When we don’t allow ourselves to feel the pain, we rob ourselves of a rich understanding of who we are and what we can overcome.

As Glennon Doyle Melton puts it,

Don’t avoid the pain. You need it. It’s meant for you.

Be still with it, let it come, let it go, let it leave you with the fuel you’ll burn to get your work done on this earth.

Bring it on.

I’m ready.

Week 38: Paradoxes

Are you ready?!

This is the most likely comment that people will say to me in the next few weeks.

How do I honestly answer this?

Yes. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore.

No. I’m not ready for labor again.

Yes. I’m tired of all the fluid retention.

No. I’m not ready to breastfeed again.

Yes. I want to finally see this baby.

No. I don’t want to do all the night feedings.

Yes. I can’t stand carrying all this weight anymore.

No. The room still isn’t ready yet.

Yes. We’ll never be fully prepared anyway.

***

When I sleep at night on these bitterly cold days, I sweat. I throw the sheets off until I freeze. Then I pull them back over me. Repeat.

I have crazy dreams. Last night, I successfully managed to outsmart, outrun, and hide from a serial killer who had me trapped in an office building, much like the one in Mad Men (which, of course, I’ve been binge-watching lately).

At full term, a woman’s placenta generates as much estrogen as a non-pregnant woman will produce in three years.

Yeah.

Thus the sweating and crazy dreams.

In the weeks to come, the loss of these same hormones will cause me to shake with hot flashes and chills, to weep at the drop of a hat, and to constantly check to make sure the baby is sleeping.

Basically, their loss will make me feel completely undone.

This is the beginning of the ride down into powerlessness. This is when my individual will and desires start to bow their heads to my body’s processes and the needs of this tiny person, now coming forth.

This is when I become a passenger in my own body.

***

Dr. Robbie Davis-Floyd, a cultural anthropologist who specializes in the rituals of birth, points out that pregnancy is both “a state and a becoming.” If you translate the word “pregnancy” from Latin, it would literally read, “the state of being before being born.”

It is a kind of limbo. To be pregnant is to experience the world in flux. To see the world turned upside down and inside out. In her book, Birth as an American Rite of Passage, Davis-Floyd writes that,

“the near-constant inner and outer flux of pregnancy keeps the category systems of pregnant women in a continuous state of upheaval as old ways of thinking change to include new life” (p. 24).

So fluid is this state of being that I oscillate back and forth between wanting to be free of this pregnancy and not wanting it to end.

***

Labor also brings its own set of paradoxes.

In labor, the fastest way to progress is completely counter-intuitive.

You need to relax through the pain.

Try it the next time you burn your hand or stub you foot so hard you scream. Your first instinct is to clench and bear down. Not to breathe calmly through it.

Labor takes you out of the boat and throws you to the mercy of a series of invisible, crashing waves. At first, you might hold your breath through the pain and gasp for air in the breaks. But in time, the waves come at you harder and faster, leaving little to no time to breathe.

And that is when you realize that what you really need to do is stop fighting.

Let the water hold you down, down, down. Until you are still.

Because the more you resist, the longer labor is.

So surrender becomes your savior.

Surrendering to pain. Accepting it. Even though you don’t know when it will end.

That is the smoothest path through labor.

***

As a human being, I loathe this truth, that surrender is necessary in labor. I hate uncertainty and I cling to control. I avoid pain if I can.

But allow me to get spiritual for a moment.

As a Christian, I understand this truth.

Of all the symbols that Christians could have used to represent their most ardent belief, they chose a symbol of execution. Of Death.

Instead of choosing a symbol of humility (the manger) or peace (the dove) or bounty (the fish), Christians chose a symbol of intense pain and sacrifice. A sacrifice so crushing that it would obliterate body and mind, leaving behind only spirit.

They chose a symbol of death because they believed that it was only by dying to their previous lives that they would be able to embrace new life. They believed that before experiencing true humility and peace and bounty, they first needed to give it all up.

Because you can’t truly receive until your hands are empty.

Emptiness first. Then Plenty.

Death first. Then Life.

As a Christian, this is how I understand labor. I see labor as the most authentic expression of what I worship.

I follow a belief that Death comes first. Then Life.

Death to Self. Then, New Life.

***

As I’ve said before, January doesn’t seem like a month that goes well with birth. It stands in contrast to so many other months when we see evidence of life at work. In the United States, nature lovers will tell you that we are currently in Deep Winter, a period of seven weeks before Early Spring begins. In these weeks, we see nature as barren, perhaps even conquered.

But below the surface, the world is shifting and preparing for spring.

light-shining

I think about this as I walk in the mornings now, bundled beneath layers. Even though the winter air bites and stings, the winter light still warms me when the clouds break.

I went to church last Sunday and I was reminded that we are in the season of Epiphany, the time of year when Christians remember that God’s light doesn’t just shine on us. It comes down to light our way. Even though the darkness consumes so many hours of these winter days, the light is still there.

Even though darkness, light.

Even though Death, Life.

Even though pain, progress.

Even though two, one.

Even though being, becoming.

Even though ready, not ready.

Week 37: Endings

Last year, I began the year on an ending.

I woke up empty. Finally.

On New Year’s Eve, I had a D & C to put an end to the miscarriage that my body wouldn’t let go. We picked up my painkillers on the way home, along with a piece of apple pie from Whole Foods. (Sometimes, food really does make you feel better.)

That night, we watched Interstellar through Amazon Prime.

I thought about the moments in my life when I would want to reach back through time and space and tell myself to do something differently.

The truth is, I don’t have many regrets in my life.

But the regrets that I do have are moments when I couldn’t accept that a part of my life was ending and another was beginning. Even when the change was good change. Staying in a relationship that I knew was ending. Staying in jobs that not only sapped my joy but also my dignity.

Given the choice between embracing the unknown and holding on to the familiar, my heart wants to cling to the familiar.

But there is goodness in letting go and allowing the emptiness to move in.

It’s the emptiness that allows us to imagine a different future.

Beginnings cannot begin until the endings end.

So after closing the door on last year’s miscarriage, I gave myself some time to feel empty again. To regenerate and heal.

I got pregnant again.

Now, I’ll be giving birth this January.

The symmetry almost makes me laugh. Perfect bookends on a very strange year. It’s one of those odd parallels that seems too coincidental to be true, but there it is nevertheless.

***

As this pregnancy enters its final weeks, I’m thinking more and more about the art of letting go and letting it be.

To be clear, I don’t define “letting go” as forgetting the past. That is impossible. Even dangerous to our emotional well-being. When we divorce our present selves from the past, we lose part of our identities. Finding peace in yourself, I believe, requires that you make peace with every version of yourself, past and present.

If you’ve watched any of HBO’s new show, Westworld, you’ve seen how the writers of this show explore the relationship between memory and consciousness. To be human is to construct a present self that is informed by the experiences and decisions of our past selves. It’s this constant creating and recreating of our present identities that makes us human. In the absence of the ability to access memory, we lose our humanity. We become beings that move on pre-programmed “loops” of motivations and behaviors.

In that sense, a healthy respect for accepting endings in our lives helps us become the best versions of ourselves.

In a few weeks, I’ll be closing the door on this version of myself. Mother of one daughter in a family of three. The days of being concerned about only one child’s health and development will be over.

I’ll have to accept that I cannot just fit this new child into the current patterns, behaviors, and structure of this family of three.

Everything will shift.

Everything must shift.

Accepting that shift is how I can keep all the heartaches in perspective.

Heartache? some of you may be asking.

Yes. Because I’ll need to accept that this is the last time I’ll give birth. The last time I’ll look down on that perfectly, unwrinkled face, just minutes old. The last time I’ll rub my hands over that soft, velvety newborn skin.

It takes courage and grace to accept that these moments are so fleeting. If I think about it too much, I feel paralyzed by the grief of watching all these moments pass and pass and pass, knowing that my child is changing, changing, changing.

It is all so brief. So very brief.

But everything shifts.

Everything must shift.

***

Before this pregnancy, January never felt like a month for giving birth.

The trees are bare. The grass is frosty. The birds don’t sing. The wind stings and bites your face. It’s the peak of the cold and flu season.

Nothing makes me think of the promise of new life.

But the word January comes from the Roman god, Janus, a two-faced god who could look back on the past while looking forward. His presence symbolized beginnings and endings and transitions. He was the god of gates and doors. People worshipped him in times of harvest, in marriages…

And in births.

janus

The Roman god, Janus

In these final weeks of pregnancy, that is what I will try to do.

To look on the past even as I move forward.

Into this new identity.

Mother of two.

Week 36 1/2: The Last Trimester Funk

Doug asked me to take Felicity to get bread at Trader Joe’s today.

That was the question.

That was what sent me into tears.

Because I don’t want to do anything today.

Because I don’t want to be around my daughter for the fifth day in a row.

And why does her daycare have to be closed this week?

And that makes me a terrible mother.

And soon I’m going to have two small human beings that need me.

And I just had to buy the next size up in maternity pants.

And the next size up in underwear.

And I woke up every hour on the hour last night. To either pee or switch positions.

And I don’t want to be pregnant anymore.

But I’m not ready to have another baby.

And after the miscarriage last year, I swore to myself that I’d never complain about being pregnant again.

And I am.

And I woke up to an email from a friend who just had her baby this morning and she was just so beautiful and life is so full of goodness.

And I’m so grateful that my body was able to do this without complication just one more time.

And I know a small fraction of the things that could have gone wrong so far.

And my legs don’t look like my legs anymore.

And I had to send out a family Christmas picture in which my daughter looks like an angel and I look like a puffed-up version of myself.

christmas_picture_2016_2

And everyone tells me that I’m really not carrying much extra weight.

And I’m tired of thinking about whether I’m eating enough protein or vegetables or calcium or omega-3s.

And I just really want to have a Guinness.

And I don’t want to think about how much weight I’ll have to lose this time.

And all I really, really want to do is lie in my bed with my Snoogle wrapped around me and pull the covers up to my face and sleep and sleep and sleep like I won’t sleep for another year.

Because once this baby escapes, that’s pretty much the truth.

 

Week 36: Sort of Ready for Another Baby

I’m sort of ready to have another baby.

We bought a new car. The thought of shoving two car seats into the back of my Honda Civic was just… No.

We bought the Civic in 2006, shortly after we got married. So it is probably time to move on. Although, anyone who knows me knows that I’m a creature of habit and unless I see a real need to buy something else, I’m usually good with what I have. Indefinitely.

A larger car meant either a minivan (No), an SUV (maybe?), or a station wagon (Am I becoming my parents?).

In the end, I fell in love with a Subaru Outback. We bought one this past week.

subaru

Do I have to call it a station wagon? Because it feels a whole lot better than the Buick station wagon that I rode around in as a child.

buick

I think I’ll just call it a Subaru.

***

All year, Doug has had the goal of “getting the baby’s room ready.” Which is actually a three-step process.

  1. Convert the “overflow room” into Felicity’s new bedroom. (Run new wiring for a ceiling fan, redo/paint the walls)
  2. Convert Felicity’s bedroom into Doug’s office.
  3. Convert Doug’s office into the new baby’s room.

So far, we are approaching the end of step # 1.

img_3746

img_3747

In the process, Doug’s office has become the “overflow room.” And the baby’s things (a combination of Felicity’s old things and some new things) are chillin’ in the hallway.

If this were my first baby, this would totally freak me out. Before Felicity was born, I needed–at the very least–the appearance that we were prepared to have a baby around the house.

This time, my checklist is much shorter.

1.) Is the car seat in the car?

2.) Do we know where the old baby things are?

3.) Do we have diapers and bottles on hand?

Doug, on the other hand, is much more freaked out than me. From his perspective, Felicity’s room and the baby’s room must be done. (And let us not even mention the last bit of mulch from last April that still sits in the driveway–it is his current bane of existence.)

***

What does freak me out is this obvious fact that is just now hitting home.

I am going to have to give birth again.

Oy.

Everyone tells me the second birth is easier.

God. I hope so. Really not looking forward to a 33-hour labor again.

Even if I wouldn’t change (much) about my first birth, that doesn’t mean I desire to relive a similar experience.

The thing that really sucks is that I know there’s not much you can really do to prepare for birth. We have a doula. We’ve done a tour of the birthing facility. I’ve been seeing my medical provider since the beginning of this pregnancy.

And having been through labor before, the best advice that I can offer myself is to just roll with it. Hour by hour and moment by moment.

Just deal with the pain that you have in the moment and don’t worry about the pain coming down the line.

***

My body, on the other hand, is totally ready to do this.

I’m burning about 600-700 extra calories per day, just because I’m existing and moving.

After about 15 minutes of standing, I need to sit down. My lower back hurts too much. So I end up wearing the pregnancy belt a lot when I need to walk for periods of time.

My belly is–yet again–getting tighter.

At my last appointment, the doctor told me that the baby is head down (good) and sideways (a little weird this late in the game?). Its butt is pointed out to my left side. Its feet are jutting out from my right side. It’s about 5 1/2 pounds now, according to my pregnancy app.

My pregnancy app also tells me that my placenta is starting to age and my amniotic fluid is decreasing. That makes sense. The baby’s movements are much more pronounced now. It feels like the cushion between the baby and my bones is much thinner. A foot in my ribs is very uncomfortable.

And… I just feel so much pressure.

I forgot how much physical pressure you feel in these final weeks.

I remember that in that first moment after Felicity was born, I said, “It’s over. I’m so glad it’s over.”

I was talking about the pain, of course, but I was also talking about the pressure. To shift so suddenly from fullness to emptiness. To breathe again. An honest-to-God full breath.

But this time, with that full breath comes the knowledge that it’s over for me.

This is it. No more pregnancies after this.

So I’m caught.

Between the desire to be free from this pressure and the knowledge that being free of it will make me wish that it wasn’t over.

I absolutely know that when the dust has settled,

and we’re back at home with a new baby,

and I lie down for the first time in my own bed,

and place a hand where my belly once was,

the emptiness will creep in

and I will realize how much this baby has become a part of me

and we will never be that close again.

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