At a remove
Despite the unabated nausea, exhaustion and even a popping belly that's straining the decency of my slimmer pants, I have not once found myself in a state of excited anticipation, and that...troubles me. It is a little sad. And a little odd. I am glad to be pregnant--I am--but for some reason, it doesn't feel productive: some part of me must be assuming it will end badly. I am not worried, exactly; it's more that I feel resigned. I have no reason to--everything still looks good--but I cannot quite imagine it leading anywhere.
When I was pregnant with Olivia, despite the terror and complications and uncertainty, there was a big part of me that looked forward, that anticipated the smell and feel and presence of that miraculous squirming baby. With Josh, it was one big festival of expectation: I generally assumed and relied on the idea that the pregnancy would go well and he would be fine, even when there was a little drama.
But this time, everything is different. Baby names have not floated through my head; I do not find myself daydreaming about the sweet, slight weight of a newborn in my arms. Jeff and I do not look at each other with that sappy, delighted look that says, Can you believe it? We're having a baby!
I've had to tell a few people, and their excitement for me was hard to take in. It seemed misplaced. Maybe it's self-protection, or hormones, or depression. Maybe the anticipation will kick in once we've got the CVS results, or once I'm not so worn down by the nausea. I wish I knew. I wish I could count on it. I wish I could at least imagine it.