I am in the home stretch. About 12 weeks of pregnancy left to go, and somehow, it still doesn't feel real.
It seems like just recently that I was looking at the calendar, counting backwards and confirming that I was 12 weeks pregnant. Sighing a little we-made-it-through-the-first-12-weeks sigh of relief. Getting ready to share the news with my boss, and being angry at Rob's mother for telling his family before he had the chance to.
On Mother's Day, Rob nudged me to go forward and stand among the throng of women who had filed up to the altar at Mass to receive a flower and a blessing. "Congratulations," Father said, smiling and handing me a white carnation.
It seems like I just found out I was pregnant and started this ridiculousness of measuring time in weeks. But Mother's Day was an eternity ago. I have been pregnant forever. I will be pregnant for the next 30 years. There's not really going to be a baby, is there?
Twelve weeks. It's entirely possible that twelve weeks from today I will be holding a tiny person in my arms. A tiny person who is currently kicking me...in the ribcage. How did you get all the way up there, baby? And yet, it doesn't feel real. All of the signs are there, and intellectually I know that there's going to be a baby, but emotionally? I don't really believe it. It doesn't seem possible.
I wonder if it will start to seem more real 12 weeks from now. Or 12 weeks from 12 weeks from now, when I have to go back to work. Will I spend all of my time at home after the birth just looking up at Rob or my dad with a furrowed brow, marveling, "There's really a baby"? Will I have some "mom moment" between now and then that will solidify it for me?
With 12 weeks to go, I can't believe that I don't believe it yet.