My Baby
My baby isn’t a baby anymore. I’ve known that for a while now. He’s getting big, amassing information, developing preferences, and surprising me daily.
I’m thrilled. I’m not one of those mothers who laments that her baby is growing up. People have tried to tell me that one day I’ll look back and miss the little baby that he was. What a bunch of boloney.
Maybe I feel the way I do because Tristan was a particularly difficult baby. Maybe it’s that babies, as miraculous and precious as they are, intimidate me with their unknowable natures and their bewildering means of communication. Or maybe it’s that I’m constantly suffering from an acute awareness of the whole point of parenthood; raising children into good, stable adults.
I am no longer a slave to my emotions, as I was in my youth. I find that with each year that passes I become more logical, more systematic in my thinking. Instead of getting stuck in the moment I find myself, more often than not, following a thread of actions and circumstances and intentions to the most logical conclusion.
It doesn’t mean that I’ve been untouched by his journey through babyhood, though. I’ve been fascinated by Tristan’s development and I cherish every moment with him. He’ll always be my baby. My first, at that!
That’s just the way my mind works. Bah, you’d think by now I’d have given up trying to figure out what is “normal”…
I find myself turning inward a lot these days, focusing my attention on the Herculean antics occurring in my burgeoning belly. I saw the doctor yesterday. Guess what? Friday is the big day. The ultrasound. The doctor was originally going to wait until 20 weeks for the ultrasound but the size of my uterus and my concern that there might be more than one baby in there (Oh, the kicking!) inspired him to schedule it for Friday. Will it be a boy or a girl? Or a boy and a girl? Will they even be able to tell? I hate anticipation…
Is it Friday yet? Yeah yeah, I know. Patience.
How about now?
