I woke up at five o’clock this morning-as I’ve been doing for most of my second and third trimester- with a tender calling to hold on to all of this. The pull of savoring my pregnancy experience led me to the couch with a warm blanket to write while the snow fell quietly outside my window. It’s hard to believe that in nine short weeks a new, tiny human will exist in this world. A human that we created, that we’ve celebrated all along.
As I sit here and reflect on the last seven months, what I really want to say is that pregnancy has mostly felt like being me. It’s felt awkward at times and sometimes unfamiliar. And while I haven’t fully known what to expect, there’s been this constant comfort in trusting that nature knows exactly what to do and all in the right timing. Life is beautiful that way. For me, pregnancy has been a tiny collection of moments; of googling what cheeses I’m allowed to eat, laying on my side, and the three of us going to doctor appointments together. Kylie never says much but I always do enough talking for the both of us. I want to remember him wearing a blue shirt for #teamboy to the ultrasound appointment- and afterwards, us siting in the car celebrating you being a girl. I came home to a bouquet of pink flowers and sonogram pictures hung up on the walls. He made homemade parmesan chicken and we ate cheesecake topped with raspberries and sparkling apple cider for dessert. I want to remember waking up each morning feeling your kicks and falling asleep to increasingly coordinated movement each night. I want to remember the slow transformation of my body in perfect timing, without having to will it to do so. Of waking up one morning to realize I no longer fit into the pants that I used to. That moment of sitting on my bed, feeling overwhelmed for the first time of the enormity of this all when trying to figure out what to list on the baby registry. I cried while researching the safest brands knowing how much I wanted to get this right. And I especially want to hold on to the village of mothers, men, and women that naturally came together to offer me their support- from friendships around the world to people I’ve never officially met. The messages of encouragement and asking me how I’m feeling, the votes of confidence about our ability to parent, and helpful lists of everything I hadn’t thought of. It’s meant a lot, you know.
I feel honored to be raising a girl. To have the responsibility of both teaching and modeling courage, of worth greater than outward appearance, and in taking risks to fearlessly pursue all that the world has to offer. The gift of passing down the lessons I’ve learned from the strength of all women that helped to raise me; especially my mother who seemingly fit into this role so naturally. I don’t ever remember my mom talking about her weight or her appearance while growing up; what I remember was seeing her be a leader at work, watching her stay up late at night to help me create the most intricate school projects – of helping my imagination become a reality. What stands out most was her always finding the best gifts to put in my stocking at Christmas because she knew that was my favorite part, of tirelessly throwing me every themed party I could have ever hoped for, and how special that always made me feel. Of never sending the message that I should be any different than exactly who I was.
I want to be like that.
What I’m learning through pregnancy is how much easier it is to trust that nature has this figured out so that I can allow for all of this- pregnancy and beyond- to unfold in its own beautiful way. I’m learning to let go of what it’s supposed to be like and let myself have my own experience. I’m learning to rest in the relationships that ask you how you’ve been doing, the feeling of deeper connection, and being heard. As I enter into motherhood, I’m also entering into this evolving version of myself. And if you’re reading this, it means a lot to me that you’re coming along.
Sometimes I get nervous about the thought of being a mom. And then I think about all of the love that exists in my heart and the joy I receive in giving it away, and I rest in the soft reassurance in knowing that this will be enough.