Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011
Yes, I am a day late with this. But let’s focus on what’s important here, people. I am also three-quarters of the way there. Thirty weeks down; ten to go. Seventy-five percent D-O-N-E being pregnant, probably forever. I happy about this. But also a wee bit sad.
Surprised? I am, considering that technically, I am not a fan of pregnancy. I realized that my attitude had somewhat shifted last Saturday, when Clint and I
insanely went to an early bird shopping event at a cool local kids’ store. As we were tag-teaming the list, a sweet woman congratulated me, cooing, “Aw. You two look so cute. You’re all pregnant.”
I thanked her and instinctively mumbled something about it seeming much more adorable when it’s not you. But something about my old familiar take on my pregnancy didn’t sit right. I thought about how when I’m not pregnant, I do get a little flash of empathetic excitement for the mama-to-be. And about how I’m right now experiencing that excitement firsthand. And how the third trimester continues to feel pretty good, outside of some crazy foot pain, which I’m guessing will disappear when I’m not standing doing Thanksgiving prep into the evening. For the first time in either of my pregnancies, I think I’ve officially transitioned from trying to appreciate being pregnant to truly enjoying it. I’m thankful to be here.
The massages don’t hurt my state in the least. I love massages, but rarely treat myself. Too many other things to spend money on. Diapers and food, for example. But that second-trimester back pain made it 100 percent necessary, so, yay! Guilt-free massages for me. Yesterday’s was incredible. When my massage therapist finished, she told me to relax and take my time getting up, then crack the door open when I was ready. Instead, I relaxed and fell asleep. I’m not sure how long I was out, or how she woke me up, but damn. That is a sign of a good massage.
Since I’m on the sappy preggo-lady train, I’ll keep the momentum going: Loving the fact that I can not only feel the cabbage-sized baby punching around, but I can now see her, too. Little jabs that actually make my stomach visibly twitch and undulate. Crazy. Last pregnancy, this probably just freaked me out. This time around, I’m better able to picture the reality of what’s going on. That those twitches are my daughter, dealing with a post-dinner energy spike by somersaulting and shadow boxing. It’s her first communication with me. So pure. Doesn’t yet involve crying or poop or needing my boob in her mouth, just some little nudges that let me know she’s doing alright in there. It’s nice.
And Roy is recovering from his battle with Scarlet Fever well. Man, that’s a nasty one. It’s been more than two weeks since it hit, and the skin on his feet is still peeling and sore, and he still has red marks where the worst of his wounds were. But overall: Better. Cuddlebug.
Little guy is so psyched for all the folks coming here for Thanksgiving—his grandmas and papas and cousins and aunties and uncles. Clint’s parents are even making the trip from up Iowa this year, for the first time. We list everyone off a few times a day, and he just glows about it. Can’t believe all those awesome people will be here, in our house, tomorrow. I’m thrilled, too.
Speaking of, I must go make my brine and pick up the turkeys and do a million other Thanksgivingy things. Happy Turkey Day to you! I hope you have too much to be thankful for.
Cabbage photo credit: iStockphoto