I hate being pregnant.
It’s not that I don’t believe that a positive outcome makes it all worth it or that I don’t recognize the debt that I owe to the process (thanks Mom!).
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that being here, 29 weeks along, is a gift in itself, a gift that doesn’t always come easily.
It’s just that this a terribly scary place for me. The recent tragedies that have befallen other bloggers have served as potent reminders, not that I really NEEDED reminding, of just how fragile this state can be.
And yet with each passing day I also catch glimpses into the way that it is “supposed” to be – the casual conversations with the postman about giving g a sibling, the talk on the playground with other parents of two young children about “how one does it”, discussions of birth plans and post-birth arrangements. The more entrenched in this role I become, the more terrified I feel. To me, normal is bed-rest starting at 24 weeks, high risk specialists, an unsure outcome. I find far greater security when using the term “if” than I do when using “when”. And yet I have little justification for such an approach this time around, which should be cause for celebration. If only I could convince myself that it might even be ok to embrace this good fortune.