I am now in my second trimester. I've gained 5-ish pounds, I have a tummy, and remain in that awkward phase where most of my real clothes don't fit but most of my maternity clothes are too big. I feel completely normal. This is the part of pregnancy I forget- the part where you feel fine and aren't ungainly yet. All I ever remember is the first few months where you feel awful and the last two months when you feel like a hippo. Luckily, the majority of the weeks are really more like this.
It is shocking to me how little I seem to be writing (or really, even thinking) about this pregnancy. We went back and forth for so long, I thought I'd be panicked much of the time at the thought of another baby once we finally pulled the trigger, but at least for now, I'm almost alarmingly unconcerned. I even had a firm chat with myself the other day-- do you know you're pregnant? It's done, we can't go back. Do you know you're about to have a THIRD human child running around? Do you know how this is going to affect your life, sleep, finances, everything? Landon is practically off to college- an independent man who needs me for the occasional opening tricky cereal bar wrapper. Claire has been potty trained since October, in a twin bed since November, dressing herself, buckling her car seat, generally functioning completely independently for months. Both kids have slept 11+ hours at night for more than 2 years. They play together for hours and I get to read books in daylight. We're starting over, there's going to be another baby.
And yet, after this talk, there was no wake up call. I nodded because yep, it's happening, and I know I'm pregnant by the lack of margaritas in my life (I had a VIVID dream that I drank one, and then, as happens when you have one margarita, I had another, and it was so good and then I woke up consumed by guilt that I would possibly harm my baby just for a frozen tequila concoction and I was awake for minutes- MINUTES- before I realized I'd had pasta the night before and I'd never drink a margarita with pasta so it couldn't have happened at all), but I'm not concerned about it. Landon and Claire are really absurdly easy children. They're fun and funny, well-behaved and polite, blessedly healthy, and generally amenable to clear, strict, consistently enforced rules. And, they really do love each other. If they were harder, it's far less likely we'd be having another. And maybe it was all the back and forth we engaged in for so long- we listed and emphasized all the negatives of a #3 so many times that I'm immune to them now, at least until the baby is here and they become real.
But what will also be real is the squishy baby that curls up like a baby wombat on my chest. The one-piece play clothes that cost like $4 at Target. Cherries and ladybugs, or trucks and dinosaurs; fuzzy sleepers and tiny socks. Snuggle time at night with a bottle and a rocker. First claps, first crawls, first steps. A chubby little toddler chasing after Claire who is chasing after Landon. Three kids at the table. Three kids in the car driving to Colorado and the Grand Canyon and everyone else we want to take them to climb on rocks and jump across rivers. Three sets of giggles and screams and sets of limbs in the pre-bed pile-on daddy. Three kids.
Landon and Claire are outside playing with the water table (playing, splashing, screaming, and generally soaking their clothes and everything around them) and all I can do when I think of that third little one is smile and look forward to the glorious chaos of it all. And get back to reading my book (my 5th re-reading of Poison Princess, why do I like it so much?!), because pretty soon I'll have to actively supervise a kid again and who knows how much reading I'll get done then.
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