A blanket almost sunk me. Our lovely, wonderful, kind, beautiful neighbors called yesterday, telling us they had a little gift for E and the new baby. So, before C and I took E and the dog for a walk, we stopped over. A book about a new baby for E, and a lamby, darling, soft, cozy lovey blanket for Petit Trois.
So, we just started talking to E about this new baby. I explained why he couldn't kick me--repeatedly--although he seems to find humor in things he's not supposed to do. He's so 2.
Anyway, I explained that there's a baby in Mommy's tummy . . . and he immediately looked down my shirt to try and find him. No, no, I said, he's inside, under my skin. E said, "Oh, he's under the covers, sleeping."
I won't lie and say I didn't panic at his use of "sleeping" with Petit Trois. But I stayed relatively cool. I tried to see it as cute, which, under normal circumstances, it was. And now E talks about the baby , and I wonder if he experiences deja vu. The last time we talked about a baby in Mom's tummy he wasn't quite as articulate. I wonder if he's all, "Yeah right, Mom, I'll believe it when I see it."
Me too, kiddo. Me too.
And tomorrow we're going crib shopping. It makes me want to throw up a lot thinking about it. Unfortunately you can't just go to the store and take the floor model once the baby actually arrives alive. Oh, how I wish. Well, technically I guess you can, but, well, that's not what we're doing. So we're going tomorrow. To the same store that kindly cancelled our order approximately 8 months ago.
So how did this blanket nearly sink me, you ask? Because telling our son, receiving gifts. making major furniture purchases somehow drives the point home: THIS BABY IS COMING. Hopefully alive . . . but either way he's coming out the exit shortly. And, while NOT doing these things wouldn't make it any easier if things go to shit again, it makes it a bit more real in my head. I try not to think about what will happen if he doesn't make it, but it's equally hard to think about what happens if he does. Everyone around me is hoping so hard for us . . . and, truth, be told, so am I.
I know this sounds crazy. Of COURSE this baby is coming, of course he's real. But. Well, shit. I guess I've just been gestating so long, punctuated by utter devastation, it's hard to believe this could actually end by bringing home a living, breathing, eating, pooping child. Now THAT'S some crazy talk.
Talking about the baby, accepting gifts . . . somehow feels like a jinx. And this morning I did have a freak out where Petit Trois was sleeping, not to be disturbed by orange juice or M & M's. And my thoughts flew to the lamb blanket, E, the few things I've purchased. "Fuck. I can take it all back, all but my words to my son . . . " and then PT gave a wiggle, some kicks, and I could exhale. I uttered a "Please and thank you" to the Universe.
The lamb's up in the closet. I can't look at him just yet.
One last thing. I'm going to need people to stop asking me if the baby's moving, or, even better, if he's moving "a lot." Seriously, when he's not, I work hard at not panicking. When he is, it's as though the drugs have started their magic. But when someone asks, and he's not, I can feel my blood pressure rise, I can hear the thumping of my heart in my ears, I fake it and say, "Yep." Through gritted teeth and panicky breath.