I wake up, I turn on a record.
I feed my dogs. I feed myself.
I pray to God for strength.
My life is so far from perfect, but it's just the way I like it. The cold grows stronger outside and the leaves begin to fall and die. But so much life grows inside of me. It's both exhilarating and frightening. I feel taken over. I'm not myself. My body changes in ways I'm uncomfortable with. The nausea, the mood swings, the aches, the cravings, the disgust, it's all so new and so out of the ordinary. It's no longer about me, but then again, it should have never been about me.
This child is very wanted. This child magically appeared one morning after almost two years of doctors saying it was unlikely to happen. This child is very wanted.
The change in me is so strange, though. It's so far from picture perfect that I can't take photos of it–of me. Of the change in me. But I can write. I can write to remember.
People told me to undo the top button of my pants and use an elastic band to keep my pants together. But it made me feel fat and everything still dug in and hurt. So I bought maternity pants yesterday that go all the way over your belly, up through 9 months, and at only 10 weeks and a few days, they already fit. This is change. Perhaps it's minuscule and superficial to you. But to me, my body, my self, it's change.
Soon, my office will be no more and soon, it will become your room. Although I think I'll keep my desk in there and replace my laptop with paints that you can use one day. I've wanted to start painting again for so long, too. I've wanted to write children's books. I've wanted to illustrate. I've wanted to get back to that daydreaming place where anything and everything is possible. Maybe as I help you become big, you can help my mind become small again.
Some days, the change is lonely. But he always comes in, the bright light he is, and wipes away any sorrow. He tells me the change is good, it's normal, it's a season, a season that will pass. He tells me I won't always feel this way or ache and that if I'm growing, it's okay. He listens to me sob about not wanting to take another sip of ginger ale and even seems to understand. He makes me soup and buys me groceries when it's late. He rubs my back or gets me Tums and when I can hardly keep my eyes open at 7:30pm, he gets into bed with me. We watch movies until we fall asleep, and even though the early nights have him waking up at 4 or 5am, he lets me sleep until 8am and I really do sleep that long these days. It's all so tiring.
People tell me I'll feel better in a few weeks and that I'll even miss being pregnant one day. I wonder if I will, but I hope that I do.
For now, I pull my sweater closed and listen to the wind whistling outside. I love this dark and gloomy city. And inside, here inside of the house, music plays and lifts spirits into the air. And I pray to God for strength.