Saturday, August 28, 2021

No Sudden Moves

I suppose this blog is overdue for an bumpdate. (Overdue. Ha.

Summer and the second trimester of my pregnancy perfectly coincided, though that’s about the only thing that’s gone perfectly over the past three months. It’s been a whirlwind, and nothing like the honeymoon period I experienced during the second trimester of my last pregnancy.

Among the developments:

My husband and I contemplated – then changed our minds about – moving. After preparing our home to go on the market and just as we were about to commence house hunting, we decided we needed to just stay put for the time being.

We met with a pregnancy (read: adoption) counselor and even tentatively chose an adoptive family, then put that plan on hold when I realized giving up a baby would wreck me emotionally even more than raising two kids under two years old would.

We’ve been working on getting our toddler off the bottle (seemingly never going to happen) and onto finger foods. Newly diagnosed sensory issues are apparently to blame for this developmental delay. Progress is painstakingly slow, requiring visits to a feeding clinic (yes, that’s a thing) and multiple waitlists for occupational therapy. We’ve given up on sleep training and are simply grateful any time she sleeps through the night, even if she does so attached to me like a jellyfish. (Now if only I could get some shut-eye...)

My incessant exhaustion (aka my new default state), which I had attributed to pregnancy and parenthood plus depression, was found to have a medical cause: anemia. Other than that, my body has been doing its miraculous, gestational thing flawlessly. Physically, this pregnancy has been the most uneventful I’ve ever had. And yet, at every OB appointment, my refrain is: “How soon can we get this baby out of me?” (“You won’t make it to your due date,” a nurse recently told me, though it wasn’t clear if that was just her wishful thinking or if, as a “geriatric mother,” some kind of medical intervention is more likely to happen before my due date.)

I signed on with a doula, as my husband might be too busy wrangling our high-maintenance toddler to attend the new baby’s birth (and children are not allowed at the hospital due to COVID restrictions). I’ve made it clear to all involved that my goal with this birth is to be comfortable. I have nothing left to prove. Honestly, if they could knock me out and wake me up when it’s all over, I’d go for it. In lieu of that, bring on the epidural!

As if all that weren’t enough, I’ve also been working as hard as I can, running (make that “lumbering through”) a four-mile route three times a week, eating way too much sugar (my latest vice: brownies slathered with M&M cookie dough), and getting bigger every day (please, Lord, let the baby weight come off quickly this winter).

I wish I could say I felt excited about the impending birth, but that would be too Pollyanna. The fear and dread and depression have ebbed somewhat, and that just might be the best I can hope for at this point. I am so eager to not be pregnant anymore (or ever again, for that matter). I can’t wait to be freed from the three massive, fleshy bowling balls (two in the chest, one in the womb) that I’ve been hauling around all summer. And get me off of this “hormotional” rollercoaster, please and thank you.

As the calendar flips over to September, my family stands at the precipice of so much change. My older teen leaves for college. My younger teen returns to in-person school after an 18-month hiatus. My toddler starts daycare. And I enter into the home stretch of what has been, emotionally, the hardest pregnancy I’ve ever had.

As I surrender to the third trimester, I feel a strong urge to stick close to home and refrain from any impulsive decisions or major alterations to routine. It is a time for nesting, inward reflection, and maybe, just maybe, a little peace and quiet before life gets chaotically turned upside down all over again…

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.