I am 32 weeks pregnant and 32 years old.
Actually, I’m closing in on 33 in both of those areas, but for now I rather like the symmetry, and even the number itself.
Two of my pregnancy resolutions for this last time around were around documenting these 40 weeks more than I have my earlier pregnancies – in words, for one; and in pictures too.
On the picture front I’ve done pretty well. Thank you, Instagram.
But I don’t write much about just being pregnant. Maybe because it’s second nature by now – and yet, that’s exactly the reason I had planned on doing more journaling or documenting: what feels normal and automatic and like it has always been and always will be is precisely the stuff I’m going to forget. The stuff I want to remember.
If the first 25 weeks of this pregnancy were the Universe’s giant lights-flashing message to me that I never wanted to go through this again, the last couple months have been just the opposite. I am stupid-happy to be pregnant. I feel amazing. I sleep soundly and gratefully (except when I don’t – hello, 4am! it’s nice to hang out together again. not.). I am a functional mom to two kids under 5, I do my thing at two editing jobs, and occasionally I even make dinner.
This is a funny stage of pregnancy, and I remember feeling the same way the last two times. The end seems – equally and simultaneously – right around the corner and a hundred years away. On the one hand my weekly emails tell me Baby Powers is 4 pounds this week. She’s in the neighborhood of 17 inches. If she were born tomorrow she’d likely do just fine with a little help at the beginning. I rest my cupped hand on the top of her head (like her sister before her she’s decidedly head up and happy to be breech) and feel her elbows nudge back as if to say, “Chill out, mom. I’m cool in here for a while.”
[Ed: If you ever want to be proven wrong about something by your kids, blog publicly about it (like the time I wrote about how my kids don't watch much TV and then promptly launched the Great PBSKids Bender of 2012). Just returned from an OB checkup and baby is most definitely head down now. So in that little scenario above, top of her head = booty and elbows = feet.]
On the other hand, seven weeks left to go. Seven weeks of getting bigger and slower and Christmas and New Year’s and a million-billion bathroom trips and braxton hicks and OH MY SEVEN WEEKS.
It is forever. It is tomorrow. It is next month (yes). It is next year (also, yes).
She is so very clearly here (nudge, poke, squirm, ouch) and also a mystery yet. Not yet born and yet fully alive. Part of two worlds.