There is so much that I want to write, so many posts that drift in and out of my head. But often I’ll dismiss an idea for a post because I feel as though I’m singing a song of a million years and a thousand lands. What can I say that hasn’t been said before, by countless other bloggers and writers and women, through tea steam and down crackling phone lines and across cave-warming fires. For every baby that’s borne and born, surely the same words and feelings are played out again and again. What can I add?
But then, I suppose there is something wonderful about the fact that this experience does not tire, despite the fact that it is, after all, how we all got here. For almost every human on the planet (I say almost because I know that having a baby doesn’t bring happiness for every woman, sadly) there was once a mother- and a father- bursting and brimming with happiness and love for them before they even met. So what’s the harm in adding my verse to the song, gushing though it may be (and that is by way of a warning…)?
So here is where I am: 30 weeks pregnant, belly about the size and shape of a pumpkin, starting to waddle ever so slightly, and loving this experience. Honestly, it is wonderful, and I say that as someone who tends to worry and overthink and generally not revel in things for their own sake. I love the feeling of Bean rolling and kicking and poking inside me; I love that I can sometimes feel her, hard and curled up, right against the outside of my belly; I love that she seems to like it when it’s all quiet- my tender bean ; I love it when sometimes she kicks her daddy in the face when he’s talking to her.
A big fool in love, am I. A pair of fools, in fact, are we: G is as gaga as me. And, magically, I’m not worried about having this baby or even giving birth to her. (Apart from this morning, that is, when I woke up bent out of shape and aching, having stupidlyy tossed aside my buttress of supportive pillows in the night, feeling whimpery and nervous about being a mother and, I soon realised, just hormonal. It didn’t last too long). I’m fascinated by the changes happening to my body (but maybe not the ones which feel like permanent cystitis. Those changes I can live without). And I still revel in the planning and the painting and the lists.
But though I love being pregnant, I can’t wait to meet our daughter (or indeed- and it could happen- our suprise son). I can’t quite believe that she’s in there, already, and that one day not so very far away, we’ll be scooping up her wrinkly little body and looking into her beady eyes and no doubt thinking she’s the most beautiful creature that ever lived, despite the fact that she’s very likely to look, at first, like a troll. I can’t wait to breathe her in and introduce her to all the people who are looking forward to meeting her, to poke her feet into socks and her hands into mittens and my fingers into her mouth.
Well, I say I can’t wait, but that is not an invitation for the Bean to make an early appearance. I have at least four new levels of delirious excitement to scale before the end of January. I’m happy in my role as bean pod for the next two months. More than happy, in fact.