To the Big Kids in the Family

I know I should blog (or call or post pictures) more often to keep all of you, who now seem so far away, informed. I know you might be wondering: What's wrong? Is she alright? How's the baby?

Well... everything is fine... physically. As what it says on 3D pregnancy (Thank you, Debbie, for sending us the link. The 3D pictures are fun to play with, but they could get a bit creepy after a while), "The roller coaster of nausea may almost be over, but the roller coaster of emotions (happy, sad, crying, mad; and that's all in the last 30 seconds) is just revving up." While most people assume that I must be floating in the fluffy dreamy thoughts of my baby all the time, I'm in fact swimming away from the overpowering waves of dark thoughts about pregnancy complications and genetic abnormalities.

I long to see the baby.

The days go by slowly, too slowly. I often stare at the next doctor's appointment marked in red ink on the calendar and wonder why I have to wait that many more days until I get to see the baby again. I totally agree with Shellee on administering more ultrasounds for pregnant women. If I made the rules, I'd grant anyone who is pregnant a pass to her doctor's office for sneak peeks inside the belly whenever she feels like it. How could health officials not know that the mom-to-be's happiness is now wholly and solely dependent on the well-being of the life growing inside her?!

It sounds worse than it actually is. I'm my usual self most of the time. I go for walks. I have teachers to train and curricula to write. I stay in the office later than my hours to chat with Keiko (who's due next month). I search for baby names and their meanings. I call my mom and ask her to tell me stories about her pregnancy with me. It's the silence of the night that makes it easier for the dark thoughts to invade. It starts with one thought and multiplies to an uncontrollable number in the matter of seconds. High-pitched, panicky voices fill my head, and I can hardly breathe.

To push the noises out, I take a deep breath and exhale through the mouth. Lying on my back, I center myself just below the belly button, put my hand there and say quietly, Hey Little peanut. How're you doing in there?

It'd be great if s/he could respond.