You’d think that four pregnancies into this whole having kids business, I might remember details like when the third trimester begins. Can I blame this on pregnancy brain? And let me just say that our beat up old baby book with no cover, the one I bought so gleefully eight years ago, seems wildly optimistic about when the homestretch really starts—26 weeks? Really? Because I equate the third trimester with, you know, being done. You try telling someone at 26 weeks that’s she almost done. See how that works out.
It doesn’t really matter, because at 31 weeks now, I can see that finish line. I’m pretty sure that’s the trade off for having to reeeally lean over to see my toes. This is our last baby – for real this time! – and part of me wants to enjoy every last bit of it. The louder, more obnoxious part thinks the novelty wore off two pregnancies ago and wants to skip right to the baby part. So I go back and forth. I’ll be cursing my aching back and hobbling to the freezer for an ice pack when I feel an insistent little nudge and I’m struck by the magic of the whole thing, fourth go-round or not. There’s a tiny little baby in there! A teensy baby girl who won’t be teensy for long – pretty soon she’ll be demanding another popsicle and flouncing around in plastic heels and a crooked tiara, if she’s anything like her big sister.
We have three, let’s call them energetic, kids running around here, and things can get, um, let’s call it rowdy. Already, the noise and energy seriously pumps this baby girl up. She kicks up her own ruckus to match, and it thrills me and unnerves me in equal measure (maybe heavy on the unnerved side – gah, she can keep up with them already!?). We’re going to have a seven year old, a five year old, an almost three year old – and a newborn.
As much as it stuns me, this is our new reality. My compression thigh highs (sexy!), ever-growing belly, and the stash of prenatal vitamins and iron supplements in the cupboard can’t be denied. I just pre-registered at the hospital. I’m shopping for the best deal on the ol’ bucket seat, since we happily gave our other one away, along with the rest of the baby stuff because, ha ha, we thought we were done at three. That, my friends, is why my husband and I look at each other, usually when the kiddos are ripping around in high gear, and ask faintly, “Remember how we’re having another one?” And then we burst into semi-hysterical laughter.
So yeah, I’ve seen the sonograms, I feel her front kicks and jabs, we’re all calling her by her name, I get it, this is really happening. But, still. Wow. I’ll take the knocked up lady pass on this one and chalk up my shock to that handy pregnancy brain thing. It covers my brand of crazy nicely right about now.