In six weeks, I should have a baby.
Or at least, please, God, let me have a baby. I do not know how women cope with their due date coming and going sans baby.
I alternate between feeling relatively fine and borderline miserable. It's strange - sometimes, even this far along, I sort of forget I'm pregnant. And I'm, like, really pregnant. Other times, even moving is uncomfortable.
Today so far is OK. But it's just beginning, isn't it?
Overall, this pregnancy has been better symptom-wise than the first. I've also been distracted with life and not so intently focused on the little girl growing inside. That's got to have made a difference, too, I think.
Last night, I was carrying Rye upstairs to bed and he said, "Where is your baby?"
I told him he was my baby, and he said, "No, your new baby."
I'm not getting a new baby, I told him, not wanting him to feel replaced, just another one. You'll always be my first baby, I said.
But she's still in my tummy, I reminded him.
I was thinking, as I looked in the mirror in the upstairs bathroom: How the heck could you forget she's still in my tummy? Look at it!
This must also be the point in pregnancies when random strangers feel compelled to ask when the baby's due. It happened twice yesterday - once in the elevator at work and once at the gas station after work. I know people are well-intentioned, but I'm not big on small talk and I also really don't want to talk to strangers about what's in my bulging tummy and when the ordeal that is labor is scheduled to begin. Ah, well. It's also not that big of a deal.
I've gained 25 pounds so far. Ahem. This is hard for me. I'm hoping to not gain more than 30. With Rye, I gained 35, I'm pretty sure. I also lost it pretty quickly. I'm hoping for that again as well.
And my goal is to run a 5K in early July. Even more reason this baby girl needs to come when the gestation calendar says she should.