When I found out I was pregnant I signed up for a weekly email that would serve to inform me about the progress of me and the bun in my oven. The emails have proved to be invaluable, but not so much because I learned this week that my baby is the length of a banana, but because it reminded me that I am pregnant.
Which was helpful, because I seem to keep forgetting. That’s not good, right?
When I was pregnant with my first daughter, I couldn’t get my hands on enough literature about what was happening with her, and with me. I scoured books and websites for any new morsel of information. I called my doctor and nurse with every minor question. I walked up to strange pregnant women to talk their ears off. I posted sonogram pictures all over my house, emailed them to the grandparents and agonized over how I would decide which would get a place of honor in her baby book. I couldn’t have been more in touch with my body if I were a 13-year-old boy at a school dance.
There’s no doubt I’ll love my second daughter as much as my first, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a wee bit concerned about how much less attention I’m paying to the pregnancy. Sure, there are fewer surprises this time around — I already know about the changes to my body and have a rough idea of what’s happening to the baby and when (or at least it’s all familiar when I re-read the information). And there’s also the fact that I’m so busy with my toddler and work that it’s hard to find the time to think, worry, plan and get excited. I know I’ll be thrilled when she finally arrives, but I just wish I was devoting more attention to her now.
I’ve been marking how many weeks along I am on my calendar because if I don’t, I have to go back to the first day of my last period and count. I almost feel like I could be featured on one of “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant Until This Baby Fell Into the Toilet While I Was Peeing” television shows. I haven’t gained that much weight (so far) and aside from a few flutters and possible kicks, there hasn’t been too much movement. To be sure, being pregnant is glorious and a miracle, but it’s like my body beneath my neck seems intent on keeping it a secret from my brain.
I was chatting with my mom today about what I need for the new baby, and the conclusion was nothing. Really. Both are girls. Both will have August birthdays. They’ll share a room. And while I couldn’t feel luckier about that, I remember the endless lists I had the first time around. And how I was constantly refreshing the Pottery Barn Kids website to see when the new crib blankets would be revealed at long last. It just is what it is this time since I’m not about to go and buy what I already have. It’s all good, but it still makes me feel a tiny bit bad.
As the second daughter in my family, I want to make sure that my second feels like the rock star that my first one is. I vow that her baby book will be just as thick as my toddler’s (my older sister’s is an encyclopedia compared to the pamphlet that is mine. Thanks again, Mom). I don’t want her to experience less zeal and enthusiasm — and I’m determined that she won’t — but all signs are pointing to the fact that it will happen postpartum, not during.
As my belly starts obstructing the view of my toes even more, I’m sure reality will sink in and the excitement will move to the front of the line. But for now I’ll just be happy if I don’t have to hesitate the next time someone asks me how far along I am. (20 weeks, by the way. 20 weeks.)
Do you ever forget just how pregnant you are?
Image: Creative Commons