Nine Weeks and Counting...

The thing with cliches is that they make so much sense. Like the one about time going fast when you're having fun. In 9 exact weeks at this particular moment, I should be holding my baby boy. I can't believe how fast this pregnancy's gone. After the first trimester, the days have just been zooming by. On the one hand I can't wait to see the baby, though I'm terrified of the nursing, diaper-changing zombiedom that will follow. There's excitement, yet that sinking feeling in the pit of my belly that overwhelms me occasionally. Worry that I'm not prepared, that I'll never find a decent changing table (!), that I've forgotten something crucial for the baby's survival or my sanity.

And right now, I'm just plain clumsy. A couple of weeks ago, when I was going down the stairs in the pitchdark, I missed the last two steps and landed on my big toe. Used up all the cuss words in my vocab. And why hadn't I turned on the light? Oh yeah, common sense has been a recent casualty too. Was limping around with a sprained toe for a few days. Then last night, as I was putting on jammies, I lost balance and fell like a stone. No, more like a mountain. Lady with big belly should not balance on one jammied leg, while putting her other leg through. Another titbit of common sense learned.

On the whole, I'm doing pretty good and have the pregnancy glow down pat. But now that I'm slowly getting used to this pregnancy thing, it's almost at an end. Yesterday I looked at Raina and suddenly realized that the days when it was just going to be the two of us pottering around at home were ending too. She wasn't going to be my only baby for long. And I wish I could buy her a few more months, just to protect her from the pain of change. Mostly the onus is on us to make sure that she adjusts well and gets enough attention. But I tend to be such a bad-tempered, impatient, MEAN person when I'm sleep-deprived. How do I protect her from myself?

Just another worry to tack on the list.