What happened to us in Mexico was traumatic. I am trying to move past it. I’m trying to not let it affect the way I see the rest of this pregnancy. And I am moving past it. I have humor now about some of the more inane parts. I have appreciation for the health that I have and the knowledge that I will probably come out of this just fine with a healthy, healthy baby.
But I still feel stuck in a no-mans-land of fear. I realized that when I talked to my friend who is 37 weeks. I realized when I was struck by jealousy by the fact that she was at the other end of the pregnancy and ready to have her baby. I find myself hating being at 20 weeks where my baby is a real baby to me but not a baby who can live on his own. I find myself calculating how long until I get to random numbers that sound safer to me….24, 30, 36. I find myself wanting to fastforward. And that makes me sad. Because, damnit, I don’t want to rush this pregnancy. I want to enjoy it.
I think that in order to do that, I need to let go of the fear of it happening again. I know it could happen again. I was told it may happen again. But, honestly, it could happen to any of us. I can’t live with the fear of waiting for when it will happen again. And I can’t enjoy the pregnancy if every time I go to the bathroom I am terrified.
I realized the absurdity of it when I was getting dressed for work this week. I have bought all of these cute maternity dresses and trendy little blazers to dress them up for work and guess what? I’m too scared to wear them. Scared to wear a dress? Yes. Because what happens if I start to bleed when I am wearing one of those pretty dresses? Irrational? Yes. Depressing? Yes.
And so, I need to try to stop being afraid. Not sure how, but I think B. is right. I can’t keep it up like this. It’s not fair to my baby, it’s not fair to B., and it’s not fair to me. I am pregnant and I want to enjoy it. And I will risk wearing those dresses and I will enjoy that too.
Let me leave you with another normal-pregnancy-moment, since I said I wanted to post more of that (and less of my dramatic monologues). I haven’t posted about movement. I expected that the first time I felt the baby move it would be one of those Hollywood moments full of shock and amazement. But instead, it’s been a lot of flutters, bubbles and… “Was that baby or my dinner gurgling??” Lately it’s been more and more 100% baby. Little delicate kicks that are definitely kicks. Even B. has felt a few. Exciting? Yes. Hollywood moment? Not yet.
But then, today, laying in bed for a midday nap, he kicked me. Four times. He kicked me. And I don’t mean, I felt little kicks. I mean, he kicked me so hard I caught my breath. And it was amazing.