I’m 23 weeks pregnant. 17 weeks left. That’s more than halfway through, even negotiating the complex math of pregnancy. To wit: a pregnancy is 40 weeks long, but that counts the two weeks before you ovulate on the cycle that gets you pregnant, which means that the day you find out you’re pregnant you’re already 4 weeks along, making your actual experience of pregnancy only 36 weeks. So at 23 weeks, I’ve experienced 19 weeks of actually knowing I’m pregnant. (Not believing I’m pregnant. That’s something different. You’ll have to wait until I publish Part X for more on that…)
Anyway, this all hit me yesterday at the midwife’s office. Through your first two trimesters, you head to the midwife about once a month. They weigh you, take your blood pressure, check your pee for bad pee things, listen for the heartbeat, and ask how you’re feeling.
So, as I’m leaving, the midwife says, “make your next appointment for a month, and then after that we’ll be seeing you every two weeks!” Because in a month, this trimester is over. In a month, I’ll be six months pregnant. In a month, we’ll be in the final stretch.
It’s bittersweet. As cousins and friends have a baby boom this month (hello, cousins Avery and Asa and new friends Sofia, Miriam, and too-new-for-a-name baby boy!), I’m getting so excited about actually holding this little guy in my arms and looking into his eyes and dressing him in cute little clothes and kissing his tiny little baby feet.
And yet, when my 39-weeks-pregnant-with-#3 cousin Rebecca yesterday described missing the feeling of her babies’ kicking as “kind of like a phantom limb,” I realized that I’m going to kind of miss being pregnant.