Reflections on pregnancy

It is quiet in the dark exam room, other than the clicking of the sonographer on her computer and the occasional crinkle of the paper underneath me. I grip Josh’s hand tightly, my left in his right.

“We don’t want to find out gender,” I tell the sonographer, hoping I have the self-control to actually follow through on this. She nods in understanding, says we will just need to close our eyes or look away at certain parts of the exam. The willpower of it all!

The baby’s head circumference is in the 99th percentile, surprising neither me nor my husband. We laugh quietly about it and marvel at the fact that our baby seems so healthy and robust. So real.

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“Is it a girl?” Everyone asks me.

“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully, thrilled at the mystery of it.

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“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, as I am fully known.” -1 Corinthians 13:12

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When I feel anxious about the baby, I find a moment to lay down on my side and place a hand over my growing belly. “Please, Lord,” seems to be the main prayer in my repertoire right now.

Eventually I feel it. Subtle and soft, not fighting to be made known over three rambunctious brothers.

Flutter. Flutter. Thump. Thump. Flutter.

My relief is palpable, every single time. My other prayer these days is, “Thank you, Lord.”

///

Josh and I finish the final season of The Bear. I cry during episode 7 when Marcus cuts the caramel candle for his father. I cry again in episode 8 when Carmy texts his brother, every single text remaining forever unread.

When I pick up a book before bed, I am drawn to intense, emotionally gripping novels. I read Pachinko and then start Buckeye. I want only stories that feel real.

During rare moments of quiet, I can’t bear to turn on music or a podcast, preferring instead the enveloping comfort of silence.

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Fatigue is something that presses down on me constantly, like a full-body weight. I take afternoon naps on the couch while the big boys watch a Disney movie. When I wake up to rolling credits, I’m groggy and disoriented. I drink another glass of iced coffee with cream, surely surpassing the recommended amount of caffeine for pregnant women.

Varicose veins burst up and down my legs like strangely colored fireworks. One day, my middle son prays for “Mommy’s legs to be less purple.” Amen to that.

Every night I pull on my compression socks, prop my feet on a pillow, and catch up with Josh. Sometimes we have good conversation and sometimes we miss each other entirely. Him, in his whirling workaday world; me, in the midst of the slow and steady work of creation.

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Here’s the thing: I love being pregnant. I feel, for lack of a better word, expectant. Anticipatory in a joyful way. Set apart. Holy, even?

What I’m trying to say is that the veil feels thin here. Something ancient and sacred is happening inside me, and I am simply the vessel.

For several long, glorious months I get a reprieve from any nagging, negative body image voices still left in my brain from years ago. I feel beautiful in my expanding body. This is me, bringing forth new life. There is nothing to do now but wait, and rest, and wait some more.

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During the anatomy scan, I see our baby open their delicate jaw, take a gulp of amniotic fluid, and swallow. I gasp.

“They just swallowed!” I yelp. “It makes them seem so… real!”

“The baby is real,” the sonographer reminds me, smiling.

In this moment, I cannot contain my joy. I laugh out loud, right there in the darkened exam room, tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

Right now this child is known to us only as a black and white image, a swelling belly, thumps and flutters throughout the day. A mystery.

But one day they will burst into living color, just like all of us who have come before. Wailing and alive. Known.