I silently prayed that I would not spend my 31st birthday this weekend sitting in a dark corner bawling over a baby I lost. I prayed every day since I found out I’d be seen this week, that I did not want to hear bad news days before my birthday. Not that 31 means anything. Actually, it means pretty much nothing. Just another year in the bag, another day in the pot, an excuse for a pregnant lady to eat cheesecake, maybe, but over all just not much more than 24 hours and 31 years of life marked “finished.”
As fate would have it, I’ll be bawling any way.
I’ve been crying most of the past two weeks or so. This is very confusing for LB. “Mommy sad?” she’ll ask. “No. Mommy is happy, sweetie. See?” I cry when I remember I’m pregnant. I cry when I’m so tired I feel woozy and dizzy. I cry when I’m nauseated, which is about 20 hours a day, and I cry when I see a tiny baby, or baby clothes, or baby socks, or baby blankets (you get the idea here) because I want another one. And I get to have that.
And oh my god we are having another baby.
I read tonight that there’s now less than a 10% chance of miscarriage. Guess what? I cried. That’s awesome. I’m thrilled. I’m relieved. I’m also crying. I cry because I’m so tired already, so impatient with LB now and so fragile to my core. Who is this weepy lady? Who is the thickening woman sitting on the couch crying at a commercial. It’s so stereo-typical, it’s a bit sad.