I thought I was going crazy a few months ago. It all started
sometime last December.
Fifteen weeks ago to be exact.
I thought I was going crazy a few months ago. It all started sometime last December.
Fifteen weeks ago to be exact.
Oh, I know that it’s not unheard of to go a little batty when you’re trying to get all the last-minute shopping, cleaning, and cooking done all the while anticipating your relatives rehashing the same sticky arguments around the holiday dinner table.
As most people would, I chalked it up to pre-holiday madness.
But then I started getting a little more persnickety than usual. My husband, Chris, would probably use stronger language to describe my state of mind, but then he’s not telling this story.
I will admit though little, tiny things that wouldn’t have made me bat an eyelash a month earlier suddenly made me want to yank out my highlights.
A day later, I cried uncontrollably to a song on the radio.
The next thing I know I can’t muster the strength to lift one toe out of bed save for hourly dashes to the bathroom.
What the heck is wrong with me? I wondered. I never, ever get sick. As a child, it was a curse. While perfectly normal kids bedded down at home, nursing colds while watching TV and slurping Mom’s homemade chicken soup, I sat at my desk at school suffering nary a sniffle.
Sitting in bed, feeling quite ill, I ran through the list of possible ailments.
Chronic fatigue syndrome? No, couldn’t be.
Food poisoning? Nope.
The flu? Uh-uh.
If I had pieced all my “symptoms” together, I should have sensed an eerie familiarity.
A few days later, I finally did. After chasing my breakfast with some pink gloppy stuff, I faced the inevitable and headed to the drug store. I slowly walked the aisles as if I was out for a Sunday stroll. But inside my heart was thumping as I circled three times an aisle I hadn’t walked down in nearly two years.
I finally made my purchase, went home, and locked myself in the bathroom. Five minutes later, Chris, heard a plaintive wail from upstairs.
“Chris!” I yelped.
My poor husband was ready to leap up the stairs, four at a time, with our daughter, Emma, slung under one arm. But I reached him first, crazily waving a white stick in one hand. The results were unmistakable.
“We’re going to have a baby,” I say.
“What?” he asked.
(I should mention that’s the reaction I got the first time I told him such news). I repeated myself, collapsing on the sofa.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, hugging me.
I nodded my head, tears streaming down my face. Our daughter, Emma, looked up at us like we were both nuts.
A week later we had nearly digested the news. With each person we tell and each visit to the doctor, reality sinks in.
Emma really is going to have a brother or sister come September. Of course, we’re thrilled. Elated. Just surprised. But very happily so.
Almost immediately, I start studying my girlfriends’ children who are siblings, grilling each Mom on their age differences, temperaments before and after the younger sibling’s birth, and how well they play together now.
I start taking an interest in toddler beds, potty training techniques, and “How to prepare your toddler for the next baby” books.
In short, I aim to be as prepared as possible. And that partly means preparing our 14-month-old daughter for the arrival of a new baby.
I know all across Gilroy, seasoned Moms are sitting back and having a good laugh over that thought.
But I am serious. I want to soften the blow for our little angel. I do admit though that my expectations are on the low side. We’ve just begun to stop referring to Emma as the “baby.” She could really care less about any dolls she plays with, flinging them to the ground after a moment’s worth of attention.
But earlier this week a flash of hope surfaced. As I do nearly every week, I explained to Emma that there is a baby in Mom’s belly.
This time, instead of looking at me with her usual “Yeah, right Mom” look of disbelief, Emma actually lifts up my shirt and studies my stomach. Then she stretches out her hands, palms up, and whines while looking pointedly at my tummy.
“No, honey, not yet.” I say. “Not for a little while longer.”
Then Emma lifts up her own shirt and looks suspiciously at her own round tummy. “Baby?” she says.
Oh boy, it’s a good thing I have until September to get all of ready for this new little bundle.
