Five years ago this evening, we stared at each other, a lot.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
