I continue to cope with this pregnancy by exercising the everyday power of denial. I marvel at friends who are the picture of happy, you might say normal, pregnant women. I wonder where on earth they find the audacity to face all of the perils that lie ahead while I continue to plod along as if I’ve been plagued by a chronic stomach virus or perhaps a very generous desire to donate the contents of my meals to the local sewage system.
If only I were more susceptible to some of the magic that I encounter daily in g’s storybooks. We visit quaint little towns where cats write poetry and grasshoppers drive buses. Why not a land where pregnant women make cheerful announcements upon reaching the second trimester? How fun to browse colorful pages of bump pictures and sweet maternity outfits, baby names and nursery design and even, somewhere towards the end of the book, mythical happenings like baby showers and birth plans. Of course, if you take the time to read the accompanying text, there might be some talk of bothersome symptoms and unpleasant twinges but no mention of the potential for fetal demise or the sometimes crippling fear produced by any honest examination of the world that our children will be forced to inherit.
It’s a sunlit, vibrant place that I’d like to visit a little more often. If only the book would never end and I would never be reminded that orthopterans are not really capable of operating buses after all.