I am due in 4 days. That’s right, 4 days. I had Sacha at 37 weeks, so this is far longer than I have ever been pregnant, and I feel as though my skin just CANNOT stretch anymore. But it does. Every day I wake up, still pregnant, still having false labour, still waiting. Sacha brings me my tummy butter, reminding me that I AM still pregnant and that I’d better lather that stuff on if I want my skin to keep stretching without the stretch marks.
I look down at my tummy, and I feel as though it has its own gravitational force, as though it has its own mind and is clearly in charge, leading me forward like divining rods in search of ground water, only in my belly’s case, it is leading me to a place I both fear and long for.
I wake up each morning, trying to decide what to do with Sacha in case this is the last day that I am ONLY his mommy. We play at the park. We bake. We play outside in the yard. And he wants me to hold him and cuddle him most of the day. He cups my face in his hands and gives me warm kisses, then lifts up my shirt and kisses the baby, reminding me that Sacha has no idea how his life is going to change when he has to share his mommy, nor do I. And I grieve at what I will lose when that day comes.
Then, while Sacha sleeps, I peer at my tummy, wondering who this little person is, and eager to be his/her mommy, too: to hold a little baby in my arms again, to nurse again, to watch my little child grow and discover the world the way its big brother is doing, to fill my heart with imaginable love the way Sacha did when he was born. And I am overwhelmed with excitement for the day when I become a mother again.
I want to meet you, but if you want to take your time getting here, I will wait. Your brother needs me, too.