Friday, January 10, 2014
baby talk and breastfeeding kittens.
So far, throughout my entire pregnancy, I have trusted the fact that all women, but especially women that are having their first child, believe that they are having the biggest baby ever. As I watch my belly grow, as I watched my abdominal muscles disappear two-by-two, I think about how no birth is really so unique, only the little thing being made, and the two people making it, are rare. With these thoughts in mind, I only ever really think about Langston and how I hope that he's okay; I hope that he has enough room. When I feel my belly and think, whoa, it's really all baby in there, I focus on the fact that I've never felt any of this before. That pregnancy is this strange, so insanely strange and surreal happening the first time you have it, that I should really give every part it's due consideration and just take the best care of myself that I can.
So I eat well, and my husband gives me the best massages of all time, every night. I don't swell; I rarely ache; I don't have stretch marks or any of the horror stories that go along with pregnancy that people that are not pregnant, or have never been pregnant, say to make you worry and feel rotten. I have a long torso, and sure, some nights it is difficult to sleep because Langston really favors the right side, but mostly, it's peaceful. I've grown used to having him with me, having this beautiful little bulb in front of me.
Never in my dreams, but always in my reveries, I progressively can imagine his face more and more, his image, the image of him standing up in his crib in that blue morning light, the image of Tim carrying him around giggling and cooing, is becoming more and more real. Real like I can hear him. He is only seven weeks away, and I go into his nursery and look around. I imagine him playing and loving things, and I love the family we are making with such intensity, I love Tim with such intensity, that it doesn't feel like a dream or a yearning or anything that is made of smoke and mirrors. It is real. My life is tactile, and small and wonderful, and only the thing and people that I absolutely love are in it.
I had a dream last night that I had to breast feed a tiny brown kitten, and the kitten was adept at the act, and Tim and I loved him and treated him like a baby. I worried about the kitten; I had to climb ladders with him in a little sack and I worried he would fall. I would leave the house and I couldn't wait to get home to the little brown kitten. He was so tiny, I think that's the major point, because Langston is so big.
He really is. Tim and I went to my last bi-weekly appointment today, and my doctor measured my belly 3 cm larger than average, which puts me 6 days ahead of the average. She was shocked because, she said, I am pretty small, and my belly is all baby, so I worried that it was getting too tight in their for Langston, and the doctor ordered an immediate sonogram. I am glad that I didn't look up other things that being too big or having too much fluid could mean because I would have been horribly worried about congenital defects and things, but
Langston is perfect. At 32 weeks and 5 days, he is 2% larger than average, but his heart, physical dimensions, and the fluids in my womb are right on spec. my blood pressure is still perfect, the 3 cm are just the way I carry the baby because I have a long torso and narrow hips, so that's a relief. While we were getting the sonogram, Langston was moving all around, and he had the hiccups because he had been practicing his breathing so much. So now, whenever I feel that slightly tumbly feeling, I know Langston is working hard and keeping himself occupied with the activities of coming into the world.
His due date is still March 2, which I hope comes true because it is Lou Reed's, Dr. Seuss', Tom Wolfe's, and Laird Hamiton's birthdays, and I think that's a pretty well-rounded set of dudes.