So we are here at week 37. I can't believe it. And yet, I don't want this baby to come out yet.
There haven't been very many worry-free weeks (none, actually), and from what I gather about parenthood there never will be again. You're not *safe* after 12 weeks, 20 weeks, 24 weeks, 32 weeks or even 37 weeks of pregnancy. You're not *safe* at labor or when the kid is a toddler or a sixth-grader or a college freshman. Hell, you're not even *safe* when your kid has her own wedding, mortgage and career. So I guess worrying is going to be a part of life. Good thing I have so much practice.
This is going to sound mommy-blog cheesy, but I actually enjoy being pregnant. Even with all the puking and the stitch-pulling and bed rest and Dennis the Tricky Hip, it's pretty mindblowing to think there's a person in here whose favorite color might be yellow and favorite music might be rockabilly and favorite pastime could be lacrosse (all things I'm going to have to learn to appreciate). But she's inside me, bouncing around like nobody's business, and completely out of my control.
Other people see my belly randomly contorting into weird shapes and bulging out not of my will and tell me that they wish they could feel that feeling again. I know what they mean. I wish I could bottle this up and save it for when she goes away to college and I'm sitting in her bedroom and feeling lonely. I'd open it up, savor the exciting alien feeling and then whine to Jon about how quickly the time has gone.
But I've always been this way: During those three years when Jon and I were dating long distance, I'd start to get sad as soon as he got off the plane--pre-mourning the weekend together that would be over much too soon.
I feel like I've wasted so much of my life blinking.