When I was 24 miles into the first (of only two) marathons I ran, I burst into tears because I knew I would make it to the finish line--running and maybe even smiling. I was listening to my trusty iPod Shuffle and a song from the smash-hit musical Wicked came on (For Good) and there was I was, on the hot, humid Nashville asphalt running and sobbing the first true tears of joy I had ever known. Two peppy runners came up beside me and gave me a "chin up, you'll make it" talking to, and I just looked at them and said, "I'm crying because I know I am going to make it." They shrugged and took their little Katie Couric act on down the road.
I am starting to feel like that with this pregnancy. It's June. On my message board there have been 34 babies born to moms whose original due dates were July 2009. Some of those little ones are still struggling to find breath outside the womb, and some of them have already gone home because they were far enough along when they arrived. My baby is 34 weeks and 2 days along, which by all accounts, even on the morbid Internet, is a pretty safe gestational period for a human baby. I wonder if she is 4 lbs or 5 lbs and I wonder about her lungs and whether she's starting to get that all-important baby fat that will insulate her body when she leaves my quarters. I feel her all the time now. I was in court this morning and when the Judge started talking, she started moving all around, which made me wonder if she was picking up on my anxiety about appearing in Court or whether she was showing an early aptitude for legal advocacy.
When I stop and think about the fact that Peppermint is most likely in the clear even if my mildly fluish symptoms today mean I am at the beginning of pre-term labor, I get that feeling in my chest like I did back in Nashville. Instead of "holy shit, I am about to complete a marathon on my own two legs," it's more like "holy shit, I am about to give birth to a little person who is half Jeff and half me." There is a reason why there are so many mommy blogs and parenting websites and magazines and books: This is a big fat deal. And, we're about 6 weeks from the due date. If you saw me try to bend over and pick up yet another something I dropped (clumsiness is a side effect of pregnancy), you would be shocked that I have to live like this for a whole 6 more weeks. Someone yesterday told me I looked like I could go at any minute. For some inexplicable reasons, I took that as a compliment.
And, deep down, I am not ready yet. I am still enamoured with every move she makes inside of me. I still can spend hours at a time just feeling my stomach and she elbows me and switches positions. Sometimes, in the early morning hours when I am just waking up, I feel a kick and I realized I have been sleeping without touching my stomach, and I feel so sad to have missed a closer connection with Peppermint. I want to feel every kick while I can, because for only 6 more weeks it's my exclusive privilege to feel those from the inside. They haven't started to hurt yet, but sometimes they tickle me, especially if she catches me by surprise. I have never been closer to anyone in my life. And, I never, ever thought I would be able to manage enough closeness to wind up pregnant. I remember telling my college boyfriend that if I ever got married, I would always want my own house. I also remember him saying that was sort of "fucked up," but at the time, that was as close as I could allow anyone to get to me. Until certain forces acted upon my spirit, I was destined for the kind of distance that would provide me an entirely different address than my own family members. Let's hear it for some hard core therapy and some after-school-special worthy meltdowns.
Last night when I got home from work, Jeff told me he had backed his bag for the hospital. This is the same Jeff who packed for a two-week honeymooon in Argentina 30 minutes before our ride came to take us to the airport. I have never ever known him to pack with more than 13 hours before a trip. And I packed my bag so long ago, I have no idea what's actually in it.
Other than keeping my eye out for a cute dress to wear to my shower, most of the preparation now is the internal kind. I just read Heather B. Armstrong's memoir about the birth of her first daughter, and I appreciated her refreshing honest about the parts that were really, really hard. I am having trouble articulating my own fears and ambivalence, but trust me, if I read enough of this mommy memoirs, I will sooner or later give myself permission to admit, however grudgingly, that some of this is a real pain in the ass. Not the baby, but the way this Mommy tells herself she has to be be for the baby. Which is to say: perfect. Just like I have to be a perfect lawyer, and a perfect wife, and a perfect friend to everyone all day everyday.
It's ironic that one of the "life lessons" I would like to teach my daughter is that she does not have to be perfect or to be a super woman. She doesn't have to be a human "do-ing" she can be a human being and be loved and cared for me without having to dance on a hamster wheel. The ironic part is that she is teaching me that. I have new limitations now-- besides just the whole "don't eat soft cheeses" thing-- I have limited time and energy and enthusiasm that I would like to spend with my husband and my close friends. Some activities I used to have time and energy for are no longer possible for me. I have to say no in ways and in places I have never had to say no. And, it's good for me to say no and be less available. It's uncomfortable because it's a new role in the world, but it's also making some room for a new category: Family. And my role in this family includes the role of Mother, one who needs rest, lots of nourishment and lots of rides because public transportation and pregnancy do not mix well.
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