In 10 days I will find out whether I'll have a daughter or a son. This is endlessly fascinating and exciting to me. A child is a child, but when you spend your life hoping to become a mom one day, you also daydream about who that little person will be.
We have names. I've envisioned my future in both scenarios. Will I be a boy mom? Will I be a girl mom? Finding out I was even becoming a mom was a monumental moment on its own, but to find out who will call me mom is NEXT LEVEL.
I will have a daughter. Or a son. I've spent all this time knowing I'll have a kid, but it becomes so personal and special to know which one I've been given.
I CAN'T BELIEVE I STILL HAVE TO WAIT 10 DAYS. I CAN MAKE NO GUARANTEES ON HOW I WILL REACT WHEN I AM TOLD THE NEWS. Stay tuned. Probably there will be screaming.
It also continues to blow my mind that my body is a vessel for this entire journey. I know how pregnancy works, I know how babies grow. I, unfortunately, know how babies get out. But to be the person growing the human and to know my body is performing this insane task is wild. My body can run marathons and take naps super well, but apparently it can also nourish and form an entire separate being. I have grown someone else's circulatory system. And body. And moving parts. It is happening AS I TYPE. Women's bodies are designed for this and women have been doing this for, literally, ever. But. NOW IT IS MY BODY AND THAT IS CRAZY TALK.
If I think really, really hard about it, it kind of makes me want to pass out. But mostly it's fascinating.
I now understand the sentiment behind many-a-moms' warning of I CREATED YOU, DON'T YOU CROSS ME, KID.
I am creating the child I will one day threaten with said creation.
We're into the eighteenth week now, and I'm still antsy to feel movement. Apparently the baby is now the size of a sweet potato, and, I don't know, but I feel like if I had a whole sweet potato moving inside my body I'd feel it, but anatomy isn't my thing.
Sweet potatoes are definitely my thing, though. Baked up and sprinkled with powdered peanut butter and drizzled with honey...
Food is real this week. It's all I think about. I don't necessarily eat it all, but I think about it all day. What I want to eat, what I wish I could eat, what I can't eat. When I can eat. Where I can eat.
TO BE FAIR, this isn't entirely unlike my life at any other point, pregnant or not.
My bladder remains my greatest crux. Running is feeling pretty good when I get my ass out the door, but within steps I have to pee. I'll soon resort to running one-mile loops around my house just for immediate access to my bathroom. I don't hate this idea, but I hate this idea.
Nobody likes you, bladder.
I do still like that I can run. Hashtag blessed.
After my last update, the advice I asked for GOT REAL. I've been sent Excel documents and notes and web links and hilarious anecdotes. If I were to piece together every bit of advice I've been given in the last week, I could float through my child's first 12 years of life on wisdom and supplies alone.
But now I live in very real fear for my vagina. There is talk of mesh panties from the hospital and ice packs for my nether regions. Stitches and tears. Squirt bottles and bloody nipples.
"Don't look down there for a very long time," one friend warned, making me legitimately wonder the last time I looked at my own vagina.
I do not know this answer, friends. I do not know. But I do know I won't be looking at the war-torn aftermath post-childbirth. It'll be hiding underneath nine pairs of mesh panties, wedged beneath an ice pack.
But I haven't dismissed the very real possibility of a c-section, either. It won't be my choice, but I do know we aren't always given a choice. That's okay with me, but I read a blog post recently from a woman who described the way she could feel (without pain) the jostling of her innards during the procedure, and I almost passed out. I ALMOST PASSED OUT. And if I'm in the middle of a major surgery delivering to me the miracle of life and I can feel jostled innards, I WILL DIE OF THE SQUEAMISH AND THERE WILL BE NO COMING BACK. I just can't.
Something tells me that coming to following a fainting spell and being aspirated after throwing up while strapped to my back on an operating table is not how I hope to meet my very first child. Or any child. Ever.
"Krista, meet your --- "
Like, what is worse, internet? Fourth-degree vaginal tearing in the event of forceps usage (yes this has been brought to my attention) or jostled innards? I don't even know. But whoever told us babies were delivered by the stork was onto something.
You guys, childbirth is a MIRACLE.
[runs the fuck away, screaming]
The baby bump is still... a bump. It remains wee, but it still baffles me regularly. The other evening I put my coat on, and when I went to stick my cell phone in my pocket, I just felt belly. The squeeze into my pocket had significantly tightened. I actually made Todd put his hand in my pocket.
"FEEL THIS. DO YOU FEEL THIS?"
I am a crazy person. He has to marry me.
And so the journey continues. My brain is an exploded mess of wedding plans and baby details and food thoughts. Our wedding is in 24 whole days. I only have 24 days left with my maiden name, WHICH IS ALSO WEIRD. Thirty-five years is a very long time to become attached to a name that rhymes with bedwetter.
But I'd lying if I said I haven't had my new Gmail address created and waiting for me since like nine minutes after Todd proposed.
Please, do you know me? I PLAN.
This has been an update. And THIS is my current snack addiction: FLAMIN' HOT CHEETOS. I am either pregnant or a 14-year-old boy.
Until next time...
*** UPDATE: I HAVE FELT TINY BABY BUBBLE MOVEMENTS. IT IS HAPPENING. THIS IS NOT A TEST. I AM SCREAMING. QUIETLY. AT MY DESK.