It seemed like a good idea at the time.
No job prospects, stuck in the middle of the prairie for another year, and pretty disillusioned with the whole of academe, it seemed like a good idea.
I thought I remembered. I really did. I wrote down how awful it was last time. I read those journals. I really, really thought I remembered how much I really, really, do not like being pregnant.
I do not identify with those glowingly-rotund pregnant ladies who wax poetic about the mystical wonder that is pregnancy and childbirth. I wish I did, but I don't have time to wax anything. I'm spending far too much time trying to keep my food down or throwing it up.
I think it's worse this time. It's definitely harder, because this is a different kind of pregnancy. When we decided to have the first one, it was because I was convinced that my body was telling me that I needed to have a child. I yearned to have a child. I wanted to be pregnant and fat and round and then have a sweet little baby of my own.
This time, I am not so anxious nor am I so naive. I know what's coming ahead. I know that feeling the baby kick will be cute for all of 10 minutes, and then it will just get irritating. I know that the third trimester will just be uncomfortable and sleepless. I know exactly what happens during labor (although, I've gotta say, I'm getting kind of worried, because I also thought I remembered what it was like to be pregnant). And, I know that when that sweet little bundle of milk-breath finally makes his or her appearance, those first 6 weeks or so are just plain hell. Not that I even pretend to remember them-- we were far too sleep deprived.
But I think the worst part is that I kind of feel bad for this kid already. With X, I was soo excited. I took pictures of my growing belly. I kept a pregnancy journal for the baby. I anxiously read about each moment of his development.
This time-- not so much. I don't know why that is, though. I'm excited enough, I guess, but this pregnancy just seems different. It was planned very differently than the last one. Maybe it's because I felt like X was for me and this one is for him. I'd probably be perfectly happy to just have one kid, but I believe in siblings. I wanted to give one to him.
It's not that I don't want the baby-- lord knows after one miscarriage scare I was a wreck--but it's a different kind of want. And I wonder if there is something wrong with that.
If I could just concentrate on something for more than 10 minutes, maybe I could figure it out. Then again, if I could concentrate on something for more than 10 minutes, I'd start figuring out a way to grow babies on the counter like a Sea Monkey. I mean, according to the one book I have, at this point, they look pretty much the same.