You’d think that, walking around with this giant belly, I’d be constantly aware of the impending change that’s about to rock my existence.
I still have moments when I try to squeeze through spaces too small for me, because I forget I’m not my normal size. And sometimes I wonder why older women are giving me the once-over before flashing a knowing smile my way – and then I remember that pregnant women make other women smile, and I smile back.
But different than that, there’s another level of realization that hits me sometimes. Yes, I always know there’s a new member of my family coming soon. I talk about it every day – with the guys in my office who want to know why I’m sighing (I’m just out of breath because there’s a 5-pound baby squishing my respiratory system); with Simon, who talks to him through my belly button and reads him Paddington Bear; with my friends, who want to rub my bump and call me ‘Mama’ (I love that).
I know he’s coming, because every day I fold his clothes, or paint a changing table where I’ll change his diapers and dress him, or organize his bottles and spoons in my kitchen cupboards. I stack his books on a shelf. I play with his toys. I fill in the lines of his baby book with his due date and his family tree, and the gifts he’s gotten from his grandma, his aunt, his dad’s friends.
And then, there are nights like last night, when Simon and I are sitting on the sofa watching TV, and we suddenly realize that, soon, there’ll be a tiny child between us on the couch, or snoring in a Moses basket in the corner, or crying himself to sleep on his daddy’s chest. Not in a year, or nine months, or someday.
Maybe even this month.
Either way, by Christmas, I will be a Mama, and Simon will be a Daddy, with a real-life little boy.
With a name, and a face, and a perfect little personality.
We’ll be a family…because he’s really, really coming.