excitement

There's something about being the pregnant one that is disconcerting. I am at the center of a whirl of expectations and excitement, but I am standing still (Or, laying on the couch, in the bath, or in bed). Everything is happening around me. I am telling people that I am pregnant so they will understand why I am not up to doing much, so I don't have to pretend to be a recovering alcoholic when I turn down drinks, and because it's a good thing for certain people to know. I am not making announcements so that I can be lavished with questions, attention, and praise. I find the whole thing to be very interesting.

Clearly, I don't mind talking about it, and that is why I have this outlet. It's like a steam vent or the paint pots at Yellowstone. Things bubble up, I spew them out. I write about it, so I don't have to answer questions. As far as attention goes, I don't care for too much of it in general. It makes me self conscious and nervous if there is too much. And praise is just a weird concept in connection with a natural occurrence.

I am not luxuriating in the Miracle of Life. It's not a miracle. Far from it:

miracle
1: an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs
2: an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

It certainly is not number one because I don't believe in such things and even if I did, it still would not qualify; as far as number 2 goes, I don't expect an award or plaque for effectively participating in the continuation of the species; it's neither outstanding or unusual. I would deserve attention for an accomplishment like writing a really good book or creating a beautiful piece of artwork, but this is not quite the same thing.

I don't remember ever being a Monica ("Friends" reference). I don't think of myself as someone who always wanted babies or who was baby crazy or had baby fever in any way. I don't see people's babies and want to hold them. I am not naturally attracted to all children. Having a baby seemed something I should do because I could do it, and after a point, I would not be able to recreate the experience because it would be too late; but if I never got around to it, I don't know that I would have felt a hole in my life.

It wasn't until I fell in love with Pete that the idea took on any sort of patina. Then the thought of a family that included a child of ours was appealing. I was concerned that we would have trouble conceiving. There was no basis for this feeling; perhaps I was just readying myself for possible disappointment. Pete said we could adopt were this the case, but that was sort of missing the point of making something from scratch: I can buy granola in the store, but the granola I made last week is preferable, and I got to say what went in it... like local, organic oats.

I wanted to make one of our own, with red curly hair, that would look like the two of us. I didn't just want a child; I wanted our child. I didn't have a strong desire to reproduce before Pete, and now it's because of use that I want one. It's not like I met Pete and thought "Now I want to go get a baby."

Still, there's that nagging knowledge in the back of my mind... the four years we had together by ourselves are no more, and if this pregnancy works out and ends in the hoped for finished product, then everything is different.

I just can't stir up excitement at the levels that I get back. It's a welcome occurrence, I am happy, but I am not going to be quivering with joy or leaping about with glee at this point. It's not magic. It's not a gift. In six months, if all goes well, it will be a baby, and life will change. The clouds will not part, the president won't call (thank goodness), and time won't stop. Life will, literally, go on, as is the point, and we will have something of ours to name and love.