So. You guys. I am nineteen weeks pregnant today. And I know that you’ve all noticed that I haven’t posted since week sixteen. NOT. Hey, I never said I would be consistent. In fact, I even said I wouldn’t be in my About Me section. So. There. But. I am still alive. And still pregnant. Rose and I have been visiting my family in California for almost two weeks. It has made me miss California. Miss the beautiful weather, and the way life is lived outdoors. And Rose loves it too. Because we are always outside. Always. But. It reminds me of being pregnant with her. And I keep remembering where I was at nineteen weeks with her. And how freaking sick I was. And how I could not stop thinking about the fact I was pregnant for a second. I was so preoccupied with the pregnancy that it is amazing that I was able to accomplish anything other than being pregnant. By nineteen weeks with Rose, I had already been into Labor and Delivery Triage with cramping. I had lost a lot of weight. Pregnancy was a job in itself with my first pregnancy- which was difficult because I had a job and school that needed to be tended to as well. Every week seemed to drag on and on and on. This time around? Haven’t even called my doctor with issues. I often forget I’m pregnant. I do still feel sick, and exhausted is my constant state of being. I’m still not sold on the second semester being the best- not much has changed yet. But. I’m not huge (yet). I can keep food down even without the constant help of Zofran (usually). And I think that I’ve started to keep the craziness in check (sorta… those around me probably disagree). I could write more, but I want go enjoy my last days in California- I have no idea when I’ll be back, how huge I might be, or how many kids I will have with me (although, no more than two, I assure you).
Hey! I bet you were all super worried that I disappeared for good. No? Hmmmm. Well, apparently I didn’t. I’m still here. Still alive. I’ve just been… uninspired. I don’t know what to write. And then I do know what to write, but I don’t know when to write it. And then I do know when to write it and I just don’t remember how. Does that sound weird? It is. Like I said in my About section; I’ll write when I want, if I want, when I have something to say. I never said I had important things to say. Anyway…
Rose turns one on Saturday. ONE! For those of you that aren’t parents, let me explain what this means; it means she is totally grown up. She is a big girl. She is no longer my baby. She talks (well, says a few words), she walks (a few feet), and she knows what she wants, when she wants it, and how to get it. The last few days I’ve been reflecting on the past year. I’ve shed a few tears over the passage of time, as I remember the early days when she couldn’t say ‘that,’ when I had no idea what she wanted, but had to figure it out. I think about the days when I had a huge belly. The mornings I woke, had contractions for an hour, and wondered if that would be the day. And then I remember the nights I fell asleep, realizing that day wasn’t her day. And then neither was the next day. Or the day after that. And then, suddenly, if was her day. And it was my day. It was our day. My belly, though far from flat, was no longer her home. My arms were where she belonged. I no longer wondered what her eyes would look like. I didn’t have to question whether she would look like me (she didn’t- to this day she’s her Daddy’s finest work). That day. The day she became mine, she made me something I thought I understood, but really, I had no idea; she made me a Mom. She changed my life. I look at her in awe these days; she’s becoming an individual. I no longer see a baby when I see her. I see my independent, beautiful, silly, willful daughter. I see those same big brown eyes that stared up at me the evening of March 2, 2012. The eyes I looked into that night, the eyes of the baby that I told; “I don’t know what I’m doing, but we’ll figure it out together.” Truer words have never been exchanged between us. Everyday we wake up, everyday is different, and everyday I have no idea what I’m doing, but we figure it out together.
And now… now it is time for us to go. To do laundry. To clean the bathrooms. To read books. To dance. To play with her baby doll. To find things in the carpet. To kiss. To screech. To laugh. To cry. Whatever we do these days, we do together. And we figure it all out.
She’s independent. She’s Mama don’t cuddle me, I’m playing. I have my books and stuffed animals, and I commandeered these measuring cups, and I am really busy. And then she’s looking at me with those pleading eyes, the duplicate of her father, in a tiny body, with delicate features; Mama; I need you now. Don’t you see? My book won’t open, and my cup is empty. And can’t you see my arms? I’m holding them toward you. But when you pick me up don’t you hold me like a baby. And she’s kicking, and screaming in glee; What mama? I’m a little teapot? Oh, do it again and again and again. And I think that deserves a kiss. A snotty, slobbery, toothy kiss. And then she’s off. Into the cupboards. Over the coffee table. Through the gap between the wall and the couch. She’s Mama don’t give me TOYS. I want a remote. A phone. A spatula. A phone charger or salt shaker. And mama? I’m going to scream when you take them away. She’s all kisses, and few snuggles. She’s a diaper baby. She’s don’t you dare put clothes on me, woman. It is a hindrance to my playtime, can’t you see? She’s daring and creative. She’s climbing over the furniture, dancing on her rocking chair; look ma, no hands. I got this. Just you wait. I’m going to give you a heart attack. She’s I don’t need a nap. Please don’t bring me into that room. Please, please, please. Oh, wait, *yawn,* and cuddle, I guess I could close my eyes. She’s I want to feed myself now. No more spoons. Please, let me use these fingers. Look- I’ll even share (at least what I don’t want). She know what she likes. She’s serve me broccoli again? Okay, THAT’S going to the dog. And so is the quesadilla. I want a flour tortilla. Oh, but keep the cheese cubes coming. She’s sure, I’ll say dog-dog and dada all day long. But don’t even try mama… I’m not ready. Don’t push me, please. She’s my little (surprisingly) independent and daring daughter. She was worth thirty-nine weeks of pregnancy Thirty or so hours of labor. Two hours of pushing. She’s perfect. Watching her grow and change is amazing. She was worth it. Worth everything.