Every day I wake to new and exciting and sometimes terrifying changes to the landscape of my body. I’m thrilled to watch my belly button slowly flatten out with the rising of my belly. It’s like there’s a loaf of bread in there, and it’s rising fast. I felt the first movements last week. But there’s always just a little shadow over my excitement.
What happens if I stop feeling those little kicks and punches? What if I wake up one morning and I feel like I’m being ripped in two pieces, in a puddle on my sheets? My mantra is always, one more week. If I can make it one more week, then I can stop worrying. I can’t NOT think of it. I can’t not think of my tiny baby girl, so tiny and so young that she didn’t make it.
I think about what she would look like, how old she would be, the things she would be doing and saying, what kind of person she would be right now. Would she be waiting for the arrival of her new sibling, or would I even be pregnant right now? How would Ava have changed my life if she was still here? How different would it be?
I can’t help thinking about these things, even as I’m looking forward to meeting the mastermind behind all this nacho cheese craving and 4 am wake-up calls.