It's my birthday today, and I'm 38 weeks pregnant. Naturally, everything revolves around the baby: his arrival, his future, his nursery, what's best for him. And, needless to say, I'm already head over heels in love with him, our little one, our first child. I can't wait to meet him...
Well, "can't wait"... honestly, I can barely stand (or sit, or lie down, or walk). "Nicely engaged already," I heard the midwife say the other day. Great, thanks! Since week thirty I've been waddling around like a stranded whale trying to get back to the water. And that's without even mentioning how heavy this bump is on my pelvis, back, stomach, and legs. "But hang in there, it'll all be worth it in the end," everyone keeps telling me. I genuinely believe that's true.
Still, right now it doesn't quite feel that way. Am I looking forward to meeting him? Absolutely! But secretly, sometimes, not so much too. Because what I wouldn't give for a bit more peace and quiet right now - some time for myself! And the more I talk to people and the more I read, the less I look forward to "after": mastitis, a body aching as it heals, a week stuck in bed, visitors who won't leave, and - let's not forget - even more sleepless nights.
I'm torn: am I looking forward to it, or dreading it? That's what I'm thinking about on my birthday. How could it be otherwise - every birthday message ends with "so, has he arrived yet?" I realise I'm already a mother now. That nothing will ever revolve solely around me again. That even on my birthday, the world revolves around my not-yet-born son. And I give in to it. So it's washing tiny clothes, answering with "haha, no, but he does have hiccups," laughing, and secretly daydreaming about a quiet beach holiday with a glass of wine, a good book, and a fitted bikini that will probably never make a comeback... Ah well, as long as it's all worth it in the end.