33

THIS TIME AROUND

by Lesley Miller

This time around I feel you early, fifteen weeks, tapping on my insides and making yourself known. There is no denying you’re a baby, low and hidden in my body, a secret hello that only I recognize. It will be weeks before anyone else can feel you, and I soak up the intimacy of it being us. Just momma. Just son.

With you I experience no morning sickness. I am so thankful for this reprieve because your darling-but-demanding siblings need me every day starting at 7:00 a.m. I wait for my usual first trimester stomach pains to kick in, but they don’t arrive either. The fast food cravings do, and I know better than to deny you a Jack in the Box taco or a greasy In-N-Out burger at 11:00 p.m. The cravings will stop eventually, and I’m a happier person when I’m not hungry. Just typical first trimester stuff.

Instead, I embrace my growing belly with no attempts to hide my pregnancy from the world. My stomach muscles, once firm and tight, expand early to make way for you. I have no choice but to pull the bag of faded maternity clothes out from under my bed for one final round. There is a belly band or two in the stash, and I think about how eager I was to wear them with your sister. See? See, world? I’m with child! I am part of the club!

This time around, I know that a rubber band is much more effective in extending my jeans a few more weeks, but simply embracing those comfy maternity pants is an even better option.

I pay more attention this time, and I’m surprised to find that even though I’ve done this before, it’s all still delightfully mysterious. How do you fit in there? Is that an elbow or a knee? Will you be born with just a little bit of hair, like your sister, or a lot, like your brother? No one else knows your movements like I do, but only God knows what you look like and who you will become.

The weeks pass and we tell your older brother and sister about your impending arrival. They are thrilled, and curious, and perhaps even mildly confused. There is arguing at the breakfast table about whether you will be a boy or a girl, and then tears when we tell your sister that you are, in fact, a growing ball of testosterone.

And with the knowledge of your sex, we move into the name discussion. It’s a swift conversation really—there’s only one left on the list that we can agree upon—and we don’t overanalyze. Neither of us will have our first choice name, but we know that a lot of things in marriage and parenting are compromises. The most important thing you should know is that you were never a compromise. You’ve been longed for and waited for and loved since before you were even conceived.

Just like the last two times, we hold your name secret for the growing months. The only people who know are the mailman and the woman who gives me a pedicure. Luke, I whisper when they ask. Occasionally I want to hear your name out loud, and it thrills me each time because it reminds me you are more than tiny movements and doctor appointments and sciatic pain.

This time around, I know that every pound gained, every ligament stretched, is bringing me closer to meeting you.

I view your growth like training for a marathon—I might look weak and slow, but I feel strong because of the bigger purpose: you are being created by the same God who created me. I revel in my womanhood, staring at my curves in the mirror, fascinated by what my normally boyish physique can do instead of willing for it to all be over. I snap photos—not for Instagram, but for my own memories—because I want to remember the days when my body was a home for someone so important.

Last Saturday your daddy set up the crib in fifteen minutes flat. There was no fanfare or frustration, besides some annoyance at your brother, who insisted on “helping.” I did not take photos for the baby book. Over the years your sweet dad has set the crib up over and over and over again, with every move and every room transition. He can change diapers and swaddle babies with the same speed, confidence, and precision as crib assembly, and I know that someday he’ll pass along these skills to you.

YOUR LIFE IS delicate AND precious, SOMETHING I WILL NEVER TAKE FOR GRANTED EVEN THOUGH I’VE DONE THIS BEFORE.

This time around, I’m a lot more confident too. I receive less advice from strangers, perhaps because they think I know what I’m doing by now, but more likely because I’m too busy wrangling your siblings out of the shopping cart to make chitchat.

When those strangers do speak up, usually to tell me I look awfully big for being thirty weeks pregnant, I’m not offended. Because I am big. I tell them, with pride, that I grow beautifully large and healthy babies. “My last one was nine and a half pounds,” I say. I don’t worry much about your weight or mine. At the doctor’s office I’ve learned to never look at the scale. It doesn’t matter, because it all works out in the end. Really, it does. It will take me a year to lose the baby weight, and my body is never going to look like it did when I was twenty-eight. But I also know that you won’t be a baby forever. There will be time to run and lift weights and practice yoga again in the future.

Instead, in the meantime, I will responsibly put my black yoga pants where they belong—in my hospital bag. They are the same ones I’ve worn after every birth because they are dark and stretchy and hide blood. They hold all the pads up where they’re supposed to be, and are somewhat slimming—two very important considerations in postpartum fashion. I’ll pull them out of my bag a few hours after you arrive because my bulleted birth plan no longer includes a line requesting that I deliver in my own clothes. In fact, my bulleted birth plan no longer exists. You, baby, will have a mind of your own. I’ve learned this the hard way.

This time around, if I want an epidural, and I most certainly do, we’ll leave for the hospital sooner.

When you come out, I hope they can hand you to me right away so I can kiss your sticky, bloody head and stare into your puffy eyes, and whisper, “You’re okay; I’m here. You’re okay; I’m here,” just like I said to your sister and brother. These words always feel right in the first panicked-but-peaceful moments of new life. I lay awake in the final weeks of pregnancy, worried that we won’t have those moments together, because I better understand all the things that can go right, and all the things that can go wrong. Your life is delicate and precious, something I will never take for granted even though I’ve done this before.

This time around—this third time, this remarkable time, this fleeting time, this never-ending time—it is also, probably, the last time. And so I will slow down. I will revel in the firsts of the lasts. I will remind myself that the newborn days are long and tiring, and then they are over. I will remember that the pain is temporary and to hold you close and often.

While your birth will not make me a mother for the first time, you are making me a mother all over again. You are reminding me of how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to go; how ready I am and also how much I need a Helper. You are a familiar mystery, a tiny piece of God. I will both know you and be known by you, while also spending my whole life trying to understand you better. I may know how to birth and breastfeed and burp you, but I still have so much to learn about how to mother you. And I can’t wait for the honor of fulfilling such a mighty task. Because you, my child, are a sacred gift that will only come around this time around.