Sooner Rather Than Later

Today we get to see our littlest baby.

My OB practice performs a 3D ultrasound at 28 weeks as a matter of course. I’m not sure why, because I know they are all the rage and more expensive, but whatever, we’re having one tomorrow.

At 1:45 p.m. all four of us – me, my mom, Mr. Chicken and The Poo – will crowd into the small, dark room to catch a glimpse of Shaggy’s wee face.

And in 10 weeks, I won’t be able to type because I’ll be holding him in my arms.

It seems like a trick of physics, some kind of strange bending of the rules of time. Ten weeks. So soon, and yet, so far away.

This pregnancy seemed so removed all these months. Like something theoretical. Sure, my belly grew and I generally feel like a pile of old cow dung, but we clicked along in our routines as if nothing was going to really come of it.

Now I’m at 29 weeks and change, and the first week of August will find me numb from the waist down while a woman I barely know slices my pubic area open and extracts a child.

With The Poo I was dreamy, when I had the space to be. My dad was dying, badly, and it was hard to find the time to be contemplative. But often I’d stare into space while my daughter gently fluttered in my womb, and I’d imagine her in her nursery or in my arms.

I had no idea what the reality would be like, but I felt connected to her in a way that I can’t explain.

I haven’t had that this time, and although so many of you shared your experiences with your second child and told me that is perfectly normal, I’ve harbored a lot of guilt.

My guilt isn’t only prompted by my son – I feel guilty because so many women dear to me are having problems or losing their babies. And me? My husband brushes against me in the hallway and I’m knocked up.

I wanted Shaggy, don’t mistake me. I want him very much. Unlike The Poo, his conception was a deliberate act. I just didn’t expect to have these feelings. Feelings of ambivalence, fear, and sadness that my bond with The Poo will change.

I know it will all be roses and sunshine when he’s here. I do, I know that. I know that his wee visage will bust my heart open into a gazillion pieces and that my love for The Poo will only increase tenfold when I see her holding her tiny little brother.

I know these things in my head. I’ve been waiting for my heart to catch up.

Last night we went to order furniture for the little guy’s nursery, and my mother generously offered to buy us a glider. We’re only getting him one other piece of furniture, and the glider is a luxury.

I sat in the floor model and chose the fabric, a soft, light brown microsuade.

I rocked back and forth and for a moment, and I held a sweet vision in my head.

A small boy nestled in the crook of my arm, nursing in the small hours of the morning. Together we rocked, back and forth, keeping time with the rising sun. This boy baby sighed, and his eyelids fluttered closed. He slept, one small fist wrapped around my finger.

The spell broke and we paid the bill, ushering The Poo out for one of the last 70 nights she will be an only child.

I looked at her ponytail bobbing behind her as we crossed the parking lot, and I imagined two small brown heads walking together.

My children. My family.

I can’t wait.