“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” -Ernest Hemingway
I thought maybe I could spent these first few months focusing very little on my pregnancy; at least until I am further along and have a clearer picture of what is in store for us. Other than the constant nausea, it had been easy to ignore for a few weeks. But now into week 10, there is a more daily presence.
Theo “tattled” on his brother the other night, telling me that instead of sleeping, Quentin had been looking at photos of the baby. Sure enough, Quentin had helped himself to the ultrasound photos, and had them strewn about the hallway.
Early yesterday morning, they both brought me a “baby basket.” They had taken a laundry basket, and filled it with a pillow and covered it with a baby blanket. Theo wanted to know if it would be big enough to put our baby in the basket.
I cannot continue in my regular clothing for much longer. I have been skating by in leggings and sweatpants, but am down to only a few shirts that I can comfortably wear – “comfortably” being loose enough to hide my changing shape. At the same time, I do not want to pull out maternity clothes. I just don’t. I remember needing to pack those clothes away, far before they should have been. It will eventually reach a point where I have to make the wardrobe switch.
This morning, I was at Trader Joe’s and the cashier commented that I was there early (8:15). I told her that my kids are always awake early, and she went on to tell me about a birthday party she had taken her son to the day before. I asked how old her son was, and she said “My kids are 6, 4, and almost 3.” Three kids. I paused and then said “Mine are 7 and 4.” Because that is the expected thing to share in the conversation. “Oh! Two kids! That’s a good number.” I winced and shut down. In my head I said “Four kids. I had two other kids.” Or “And I’m also pregnant” but that would have invited unwanted congratulations. So I stood silently, waiting for the moment to be over.