It's been a week since two little lines on a stick changed my life, and this time it isn't COVID.
I'm still in disbelief, even though it was something we've been actively working toward for the past 3 months. A part of me is thrilled, ready to start this next chapter in life with our growing family. The other part of me, the childish part that still thinks of daily responsibilities as "adulting", is freaking out. I am growing a ticking time bomb inside me. Our days of freedom where we can drop everything and make spontaneous trips on a dime are now limited. That glorious DINK disposable income now earmarked for childcare and college funds.
But then I daydream about little baby Two-ram (this is what I've come to call the fetus mentally) that will have the same untamable cowlick as their father, his easygoing demeanor, or his propensity to chatter endlessly until his throat is sore and he needs a cough drop. At the same time, I dread that they will have my temper and stubbornness -- that my karma has finally come and it will become my turn to be called into the principal's office, this time as the shamefaced parent rather than the incalcitrant troublemaker.
And sure, everyone thinks it's great to be a pregnant doctor, because you know what to expect when you're expecting. But no one thinks about how much more doctors stress because we know too much -- when you know the statistical probabilities of everything that could go wrong. We told our family early because we are pathologically unable to keep secrets. But I've forbidden them from telling anyone or getting too excited -- wait until the ultrasound I say, wait until the second trimester. It could be a molar pregnancy, there could be fetal abnormalities incompatible with life, genetic disorders, miscarriages, don't get too attached yet. The pessimistic physician part of me tells me to guard my heart, but I also don't want to rain on Uram or my family's parade. And so I would classify my current state as "tentative joy".
Now when I see babies in the wild, I envision what our own little chubby-faced cherub will look like.
When I was in residency, Uram said he always knew when I was on an OB rotation because I would come home, measure his head, and deep sigh. My beautiful husband who subjected his teeny tiny mother to a c-section because his head would simply not fit through her pelvis. I say prayers for my intact perineum, already imagining the ice-packed diapers I'll have to wear for weeks if I somehow successfully deliver his freakishly large-headed progeny vaginally. I have cold sweats and flashbacks to the time I witnessed a third-degree tear in the delivery room, the audible snapping sound as the baby's head rushed through, pushing through layers of muscle and skin. Nature is metal, man, but I am soft. I live perpetually in fluffy pajamas and I need to wear slippers or my feet will hurt. I can only exist peacefully between 65-75 degrees Fahrenheit. I like my shrimp pre-peeled and my beverages hot but not too hot. I can't eat sandwiches that are too hard or tortilla chips too quickly because they cut up the roof of my mouth. The list goes on. Definitely not the sterner stuff necessary to push a watermelon through a toilet paper roll.
I'm thankful for my amazing partner and our village. The other day, I told him I was going to vacuum and he said "don't work too hard." I thought to myself, "He has never said this to me in my life, pregnancy has changed him." I look forward to taking turns picking up heavy items in the future, seeing if his sciatica symptoms are worse than the damage wrought by the 30-lb pumpkin strapped to my front.
The news could not have come at a better time, his parents are currently visiting for a month. I have never been better fed in my life. They force me make sure I have breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. My mother-in-law gives me the yellow parts of the kimchi -- the sweetest and most tender bites. She resists my protests when she ladles large portions of protein and soup for me and scrapes the bottom of the pot for her own serving. She body checks me out of the way when I try to wash the dishes. My laundry basket magically empties while my closet fills when I am at work.
My mom pesters me for the due date so she can plan ahead and make a baby blanket. She'll have to make two, she tells me. One to swaddle the newborn and a bigger one because the baby will quickly outgrow the first. She is already asking if I want to do my postpartum confinement in my childhood home so they can take care of me and the baby. "Dad will make you chicken soup!", and of course the stewed pig's feet for lactation.
I already know that our baby will be showered with love.
I can't wait to see Uram crying his eyes out while holding our child for the first time
I am excited but I am also waiting for the other shoe to drop because a part of me cannot accept that life can be this good. My mind turns over the macabre daily, runs through the contingency plans. But for now I'll keep counting my blessings.
