This is part of my series 100 Days: Waiting for a Rainbow.
Well, friends, we’ve hit a milestone.
At some point in the past week I officially became “the most pregnant I’ve ever been.”
In an odd way, it feels strikingly like my most recent birthday. We all know when we reach a certain age, a birthday that doesn’t end in zero no longer matters. The day comes and goes, and there really isn’t much significant about it. Like the many other birthdays I’ve had that “didn’t matter” (for lack of a better sentiment), there was one recurring thought in my head. “I don’t feel any older. I feel just like I did yesterday”
That has been a bit how this week has been. I don’t feel any more pregnant. I feel just like I did last week.
I also feel like I missed a big celebration. Like there should have been cake, or balloons, or fireworks. Instead, it felt more like a 32nd birthday than a 21st.
I wonder if I made a mistake by not throwing myself, and this little Squishy, a bit of a party. Maybe we should have had cake (okay… okay…. given that glucose test result, no cake). Maybe I should have done something nice for myself, like splurged for a pretty new maternity blouse. Or maybe Squishy should have had a new toy. There are some really cute ones I’ve been eyeing on Amazon (like this awesome rattle, or this sweet stuffed lion).
But I didn’t do anything.
As I write this, I’m
tearing up a little bit sobbing like a baby, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I feel guilty that I hit a major milestone and just let it slip right past like it didn’t matter. Maybe I’m just too scared to really let myself celebrate just yet. Maybe I’m afraid that being too happy or too hopeful will bring all of this good crashing down around me.
I remember so clearly the day my water broke when I was pregnant with William. It was such a warm spring that year. It was early March, but the sun was shining. We’d seen all these beautiful ultrasound photos that morning. After work I went for a walk, the sun warm, the trees starting to bud, cheerful people on the bike trails. I felt so good. I felt like a million dollars. I was on top of the world. Nothing could go wrong.
I know, logically, in the part of my brain not overrun by grief and pregnancy hormones, that feeling good is not an indicator that something bad will happen. That on-top-of-the-world feeling is not some sort of sign that something bad is going to happen. But I am scared to feel too good. A little bit good, well, that’s okay. But not too good, not too optimistic, not too happy.
When people tell me how happy I must be, how excited I must be, I almost always respond with “I’ll be more excited when Squishy is here.”
After William died, I was certain that the one lesson I’d really learned was to not take a single day for granted. To be grateful for each and every moment you have with whatever blessing you’ve been given, because you never know when it will be gone. And here I let this special day, this day that should have been a celebration of victory, slip right by. Taken for granted. Overlooked. By my inaction I told that day it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t enough – it wasn’t the day that Squishy was here and safe and snuggled up with his Momma.
If anything, I’d like to learn from my mistakes. So I’m going to do something for Momma and Squishy. I found this sweet little simple cloth baby toy on Pinterest, and I’ve got some jellyroll strips in bright colors that will fit the bill. I’m going to do a little therapeutic sewing, and have a mini party just Momma and Squishy.