Happy Six-month anniversary, Demon Baby!
Yesterday morning we exchanged gifts, the baby and I.
I gave it a delicious breakfast of Greek yogurt and a simple bowl of fresh strawberries and blueberries, and well, our darling little monster is apparently not aware of proper anniversary etiquette because it re-gifted that shit right back to me an hour later.
“NO RETURNS!” I felt like shouting as I crouched over the toilet bowl, vomiting my little heart out. I can only conclude that this was some sort of power move, a bold strategy designed to remind us just who, exactly, is in charge around here.
Duly noted Demon, please rest assured your authority will not be questioned again. In exchange can we make yesterday morning a one-time thing, because I quite enjoy eating and would like to continue doing so please and thank you.
24 weeks is also known as six months, and six months is also known as shit getting REAL son. There is so undeniably a person in me. It’s amazing, and alarming, and amazing. (And alarming!).
Yesterday morning (the official start of 24 weeks) I came into work and gave Adam a hug and told him our lovechild was currently 6 months old.
“Yeah I was just reading that in your pregnancy newsletter” he exclaimed in an alarmingly high voice, and then he started laughing. I stood watching him as his face changed colour and the laughter segued into hysterical hyperventilating gasps for air until finally he sat down and looked at me, took a deep breath and said “Oh god.”
Yes. Oh god. That pretty much sums it up.
I think we are both sort of terrified about what lies ahead, and previously it’s been easy to focus on the birth as the end date, the finish line. We’ve poured our energy into that one day, researching and speculating and preparing, but somehow over the past week it has become abundantly clear that that day, whenever it comes and whatever form it takes, is not in fact the finish line. That day is the beginning.
The beginning of someone’s life, OUR someone. The beginning of our existence as a family of
three four (sorry Gus) and the beginning of an entirely new chapter in our lives- the chapter With Kids.
That, my friends, is terrifying.
This awareness, combined with my size and the seemingly non-stop activity of our little one has made this whole “I am growing a small human being inside of me” thing impossible to ignore, and Adam has responded with a sort of tenderness that I have simply never seen before.
He’ll look at me sitting on the edge of our bed, doing my nightly belly oil massage and remark with wonder, “Wow. You’re getting really big.” And it’s less a comment on my physical size, than a frantic sort of plea, a question that he doesn’t know how to answer - “How is this happening to you?!”.
We lay in bed last night feeling the baby kick and no matter how many times he feels it, he never fails to be startled by each one. I don’t think he quite realizes that I feel this all day, every day. To me it’s so normal now to feel twitching and bumping, but each one still takes him by surprise.
After a particularly strong boot to my side he pulled his hand away and looked at me, “That can’t feel good on your insides.” he said with alarm. I shrugged, and he lowered his face so he could speak directly into my bellybutton, “Hey baby! Stop kicking your mama so she can get some sleep!”
This sort of reverence and concern is new to me . Adam doesn’t cut me a lot of slack (and that’s a good thing). He doesn’t tolerate whining and hates malingerers and in previous months whenever I tried to milk this pregnancy thing to try and avoid unpleasant tasks he would tease me, “You’re not that pregnant yet!” But last week he saw me lifting the vacuum cleaner up the stairs and ran to help, “You shouldn’t be lifting that!” he chided gently, as he took it from my hands.
Internets, I AM that pregnant! How delightful!
On Saturday we leave to spend ten blissful days on his family’s floating cabin. Ten days of rest and respite and solitude. Ten days to celebrate our ten years together, ten days to relish the company of us as a couple, to say goodbye to our Pre-Child selves.
To say that we are looking forward to it is a gross understatement. Both of us are burnt out at work, ready for a change, ready to sleep when we’re tired and wake when we’re rested. I’m ready to ditch clothing - perhaps for the duration of the trip - these tight waistbands and shirts that ride up. I’m ready to swim and sit in the sun and just BE for a change, instead of all of this “doing” we’re doing.
So. Six months. Half a year. Four months left.
Happy Anniversary baby.