Viability

I am 25 weeks and 4 days pregnant. I have, I can only assume, the typical symptoms anyone at 24 weeks should be feeling: a growing belly, a wiggly baby, raging, hellish heartburn after every meal and a probably unhealthy desire to eat cereal all day long. But more importantly than the 10 bowls of Cheerios I have consumed in the past 36 hours, 24 weeks means a lot more to me this time because it marks the age of viability.

Of course it is not my intention to have this baby any earlier than full term.  I am well aware that a baby born at 24 weeks is not in any way an ideal situation, but survival after 24 weeks is possible. When you are not sure if your pregnancy will make it past fifteen, eleven or even eight weeks, making it to a gestational age where there is even a slight chance of viability is a big deal.

Nothing about making a baby has ever been easy for me. At some point in our childhood we get "the talk" and learn how babies are made. Hopefully, while it is a horribly embarrassing experience, it comes from an adult we respect and not from on of our classmates in the schoolyard.  Most lessons in baby making fall somewhere between the stork story and a very scientific explanation and basically go something like this: "When a man and a woman love one another, they share it in only a way two people in love can and then there is a glorious explosion and a baby is made."

Yes, what I am referring to is S-E-X and as a kid, you are thinking, um gross. I am never doing that. And then puberty hits and you are all, um, hi, when can I do that and how often!?!? Of course, you don't want to make the actual baby until you are ready so you do everything in your power to prevent that from happening. And when the time comes and you are ready, you throw away the barriers and have a grand ole time; it's just that simple.

Except when it isn't that simple. And no matter how many times you try, (and believe me, we tried), it just ain't gonna happen the way the science books say it will.  So instead of something "glorious" you are going to dozens of doctors appointments and injecting your body full of hormones month after month. Instead of intimacy, there are invasive medical procedures, a rigid schedule you must follow and your doctor is prescribing sex. So romantic. You are poked, scanned and tested and each cycle ends with disappointing news.

When it finally was good news, it is exciting but not the kind of exciting as one would imagine. For me, at least, it was a tentative excitement. Since part of my struggles involved loss, and the fact that so much when in to getting to this moment at all, in someways it feels like everyday you are waiting for the other shoe to drop. But just like with Charlie, each day passed, uneventful and calm and I could only assume that things were all going to be just fine. And then the other shoe dropped and the worst thing that could happen, or so I thought, happened. At seven weeks, all signs pointed to that I was losing the baby.

I'll spare you the details but, despite everything I thought to be true, I didn't lose the baby. But my diagnosis was not great and I was sent away from the doctors visit with "it is all probably going to be okay but we'll just have to wait and see." I was placed on modified bed rest which is about as easy as it sounds with an active three year old at home who doesn't understand why his mommy can't get up off the couch and cater to his every whim.

And really, all I could do, besides lay on the couch and watch Bravo until my eyes bled, was wait and watch that shoe. There it was, dangling by a thread, right in front of my face; taunting me and slowly driving me towards what felt like insanity. As I sat and stared at the same four walls each day I kept trying to convince myself to be hopeful. But being hopeful seemed like an impossible task because it felt like, emotionally, I had been pulled apart into two different people. One part of me was able to hit the "checkout" button at the Motherhood online store because my growing belly made maternity clothes a necessity. But then the clothes came and I let them sit in the bag with the tags on for nearly two weeks, convinced I would just have to return them anyway. And as I watched friends and family come to my house and care for my son I was so thankful for the help, but at the same time, I felt like I was failing him. He was here right now and needed me more than ever. Shouldn't I be focusing on that? But if I did too much, I could be failing the little one inside me as well. Who deserves my attention more?

Believe me, I usually have no idea how to handle my emotions, even on my best days, and I am in no way qualified to give advice to anyone. Honestly, it would probably be something like, "Um, I don't know? Did you try making cookies and then just eat all the dough on the couch alone while the soundtrack to Beaches played in the background?" However, the best way I found to cope, besides the stress eating (obviously), was through indifference. I tried not to be too far to the extreme in either direction, never overly excited and never too upset about the whole thing either either. I had my moments of sadness and fear, of course, but so long as I could stay centered about the whole thing and honestly not really think about the pregnancy much at all, I could get through the days, reminding myself constantly that every day got me one day closer to 24 weeks.

The problem with indifference, once you get good at it, is that it's hard to be excited at all. Because I am finally in that place I was striving to get to and I am not sure how to feel. The kicks and wiggles I am feeling are pleasing and comforting but serve more as a reminder of, oh yeah, there's a kid in there. I should probably start planning for that. But the thought is fleeting and then Charlie runs by with something he has dug out of one of the kitchen drawers and I am back to dealing with him instead. But then Charlie will spontaneously hug my belly, give it a kiss and say, "I'm giving baby a snuggle, Mommy. I love her." This warms my heart and reminds me how wonderful what is about to happen truly is. (By the way we don't know if we are having a girl or a boy but Charlie is insistent that it is a girl. Try to explain how the science of the whole thing works to him and be prepared for an epic meltdown.)

So, I think I am getting excited and each day that passes I feel it more and more. I probably will always worry about that dangling shoe, even though it's well out of my reach now, until I'm holding my baby in my arms. But, I know that what's coming to me in November is going to be pretty freaking great.

This picture was taken when I was only 19 weeks pregnant. Good God, I am going to have another giant baby.