I'm pregnant. Again. For the fourth time. And I'm 37 years old.
And it's a gift, because I never thought it would happen.
Pregnancy amazes me. The concept of creating life, growing a human, seeing your newborn the second he enters the world takes my breath away. I love choosing a name, jumping every time a swift kick takes me by surprise. But having a high risk pregnancy threatens to steal my joy.
Every twinge leaves me frantic, questioning if it was normal ligament pain, or a reason to rush to the ER. Was that just discharge, or am I leaking amniotic fluid? What if I'm dilating? Because for me, there's no going back. Once labor hits, it's unstoppable. For the first 12 weeks, I held my breath in fear, dreading finding blood every time I sat down to pee. Now, it's week 21, which means if I start having contractions, he's too little to survive.
And that thought is too painful to bear. He's already part of the family. We already love and pray for him. He has a closet full of clothes, and my schedule has been put on hold to nurse him every time he wants to nurse. He's real, and I want to be far enough along that he'll make it.
September 10 is the goal. Steve will be in the country, all the kids will be home, and week 38 is safe. But 17 weeks feels impossibly far away. I don't want to wish the time away. This is my last time being pregnant. I love hearing the heart beat on the monitor, and watching him turn and squirm during ultrasounds. I love the anticipation of hearing his first cry, and treasuring that moment when time stops and he's placed in my arms, snuggled against my chest, and the nothing else exists except gazing into his new little face. I get to have that moment one more time, and I want that more than anything.
But how can I make that happen? How can I keep him in 17 more weeks, 116 more days, so that he is safe when he arrives? The thought of enduring the NICU again makes me weep. This last birth, I really want to bring him home with me.
