I have a little confession. Ever since that bright red spotting scared the shit out of me a few weeks ago, I’ve been counting my weeks a little differently. When someone asks, instead of saying “I’m nine weeks,” I answer, “I’m in my tenth week.”
True, I’m really just 9 weeks and 5 days, so technically my answer isn’t wrong… but most people would just call it 9 weeks. For me, every day is an accomplishment and that much closer to the magic 12-week mark.
(I know it’s not really magic. I could still miscarry at 13, 14, even 16 weeks… and sadly I know people who’ve lost pregnancies at each of those stages, which must be heart-wrenching. I can’t imagine it.)
I have a newfound respect for women who’ve suffered miscarriages and go on to have a healthy pregnancy afterward. Or worse yet, suffer multiple miscarriages. Every time I use the bathroom, I say a little prayer that I’ll have no surprises. They must experience that same feeling tenfold, from week four to week forty. Excruciating.
My toddler is in full-on tantrum phase. It doesn’t take much to put her into a state of life-ending despair. Prying the remote control out of her hands… preventing her from eating the dog’s food… asking her to stop hitting Mommy in the face… all are grounds for a forehead-on-the-floor tantrum, hands on her head, miserable from her waterspout to her toes.
When these moments come, I remember the baby growing in my belly, and a wave of fear and panic hits me:
Oh my god, what the hell am I doing?!
When it’s 3 degrees outside, like it was yesterday, and I’m hustling to get Peanut buckled into the car before we both freeze… and I imagine lugging the bucket AND a toddler… I wonder, how in the name of JC am I going to do this?!
I know I’ll figure it out, but I’m a little terrified about the process. Everything I figure out is through trial and error. I’m not one of those smooth moms for whom things just work. It’s usually ugly and unpleasant and then it all clicks.
Hopefully sometime before baby comes. Maybe when I’m “in my 38th week.” 🙂