Twenty-Two-Ish Weeks

I'm past the half-way mark in this pregnancy, though I feel as though I still have quite the way to go to the figurative finish line.  While I am starting to feel much better than I had initially (um...the entire first 20 weeks, even the ones in which I was unaware there was a baby on board), I'm still incredibly tired and periodically nauseated.  All for a good cause, though, right?  Of course.  And I'll look back on it fondly, as we all do, and sometime down the line, I will miss it and long for another one.

For now, however, I will just state that...eesh.  I am tired.  So tired.  Painfully tired.  (Please come and clean my house.  Yes, you.  As long as I know you.  No strangers allowed.  Nothing personal.)  My truly bad attitude has passed, much to Adam's relief.  Though, in general, I can still get super-pissed and mouthy, I'm not really a tantrum-thrower (pouting is more my thing).  Unfortunately, that changed in the first trimester of this pregnancy.  One closet door, two plates, and a wall can attest to that.  (Though, to be fair, the wall was dented by one of the plates, so that really was only one incident.)  I'm returning to normal, though I still like to slam doors sometimes.  Much safer, less clean-up, fewer repairs. 

Here is the big question as of late:  What is it?!  Well, it's a baby, of course!  A real one, who kicks (though lightly still), has hiccups, likes to attempt backflips (as I have been fortunate enough to witness), has skinny little legs like its big brother, Patrick, and very nicely formed shoulders, more like Leo.  It has a tiny, tiny butt (Patrick again) and face with petite features (Hatch.)  It's a good mix of all his/her brothers, it seems, from a kind of blurry, black-and-white, ultrasound-based view.  He or she is neither too big nor too small.  It's measuring in the 50th percentile across the board for my due date. Only time will tell if it's right.  But, back to the original question.  What is it?

And do you want to know something?  I don't know what it is.  I promise you, I don't.  I do ultrasound myself at least once a week, but I try to steer clear of the nether regions if I can help it.  But I know you are not stupid and neither am I.  You may assume that I know more than I'm telling.  And do I?  Eh.  I don't know what it is, but I could probably give you a guess, even an educated one (if you consider me "educated").  Alas, I still don't actually know anything.  I have not seen any clear genitalia images, and even my coworkers can vouch for me on this.  Things have a way of making an appearance without me trying, sometimes, and I assure you, I quickly move the ultrasound wand and try to find the face or the heart instead.  (I would watch that little heart beat for hours.) 

It would be so easy for me to find out.  It would!  But finding out would change everything, and that makes me nervous.  Do you want to hear something ludicrous? When I was pregnant with Hatch, I had this fear that, if we had another boy, nobody but us would love him.  (That's partly hormones, too.)  While I love having boys and was thrilled to have another one, I worried that other people would feel differently and quickly forget about him.  And I cried about that for him.  It's crazy, I know.  Because, when he was born, he wasn't "just another Walden boy."  He was a Walden boy, yes, but like the others, he was so special and so perfectly ours that it suddenly didn't matter what anyone else thought.  He was what I wanted.  He was exactly who I had prayed for.  (Still is.  That kid is remarkably sweet.)  I feel the same about this one.  I know that, whoever I'm housing at the moment, will be the baby that we need in our family.  God has a way of making sure that's what happens. 

[Proof:  I needed to raise boys.  I needed to let go of my own insecurities and embrace the messiness, craziness, loudness, sloppy affection of little boys.  I  honestly feel like I'm a better person now than I was before I had the kids.  And I attribute that completely to the kids with which I was blessed.]

This blog post has really gone off track.  Back to the basics:  at 22 weeks, I'm doing ok!  Baby looks great, I'm trying to embrace the necessary weight-gain (sigh) and not be too hard on myself.  This morning, as I pulled myself out of bed, I felt enormous.  Huge.  And I changed clothes by the mirror and though "that's not too bad.  I'm not that big."  My belly is big, bigger than normal, most likely, but my legs aren't too much bigger.  My face is rounder and my boobs...well, they are enormous.  There isn't any other way to say that.  (This has caused Leo to grow an unfortunate and semi-creepy love of breasts and it's taking all I have to be at peace with it.)  I have leg pain and a pooling of blood in my right leg (so sexy), which has deemed me a good candidate for compression stockings...the prescription variety.  Even sexier.  I don't sweat at all when I wear them.  (That's a total lie.  I sweat like a horse.  That "glow" I have?  Perspiration.  For sure.)

But things are good!  Adam and I have come up with solid names for the baby (two for each sex), a plan for the nursery.  I like to think about the way things will be when baby gets here, but there is no plan for that.  We'll wing it.  We always do.