18 Weeks
We call the little life inside of me Lil’ Baby. LB for short. Food-related charts tell me that this week LB measures the size of a sweet potato or a bell pepper. Jeff says the sweet potato comparison is wildly inaccurate. I prefer the sweet potato comparison.
I am hungry for all the wrong foods. Jalapeños, pickled and poppered, hot sausage links fresh from the farmers market, spicy chicken wings, Takis. In the fridge, there are leftover homemade baked beans and macaroni and cheese. These leftovers are as important to me as my deadlines are this morning. There is no doubt that this baby’s mother is from the south.
Over dinner we sit at our small, 1960s tiki-inspired rattan dining table. We make agreements with each other regarding LB’s future eating habits. Will we require membership to the Clean Plate Club? No. Will we expect LB to eat what we eat? Yes, only in smaller amounts. If LB hates spaghetti the way his mom hates spaghetti, can he or she pass on it? After three tries.
There are Tums in the kitchen. I need to remember to pick up Tums for the bedroom, the bathroom, and my purse.
I am finding that the clothes that fit my bump don’t necessarily fit my personality. I am tired of black leggings and loose-flowing floral-print dresses. I purchased a pair of maternity jeans that I like to wear with tight black t-shirts with slogans from places in Texas.
Wearing my giant sunglasses, it occurs to me that LB may remember, at some later date, the way his mother looked when she was young – long brown, hand-combed hair, small bright green amber earrings, black t-shirts and giant dark sunglasses that covered at least half of her face.
Jeff and I find ourselves in bed most nights around 10:30. A far cry from the nightlife we used to inhabit. Lately, Jeff stays up later, fraught with the anxiety of a soon-to-be-dad. I tell him I love him. I tell him LB loves him. He smiles. He tells me he knows. He tells me he’s still worried. “You’re a fantastic husband” does not express how I feel. Neither does “you’ll be an amazing father,” but he’ll have to believe me until we discover better ways of using our words.
I don’t need to remember to give Jeff hugs because I am constantly wrapping my arms around him from behind while he washes the dishes, stopping him in the hallway on his way to writing, reaching out to him in empty parking lots or dirty sidewalks.
At work people ask if I am feeling better. They ask if my second trimester is better than the first and I try to explain that it’s not better or worse, it’s just different. Women who’ve never been pregnant ask me about my birthing plan. Women who have been pregnant offer sleeping tips. Men who are not fathers warily eye my growing belly.
Walking down the street, I am winded. I am breathless. I am waiting for a flutter. I should start feeling LB move any day now. I wonder what will provoke their gentle rumble.
I talk to LB all the time about things that have nothing to do with being a baby. I use my regular voice because I do not want LB to not recognize me. I place my left hand underneath my belly when I’m feeling stress so as to let LB know everything’s okay. I wake in the morning with my arms wrapped around my middle after another night of bad dreaming.
Sometimes I worry that LB is lonely. That all their twisting and turning will not be enough to keep them occupied. That at the end of a long day, LB will feel tired, on the brink of tears and in need of a quiet couch to share space with someone they love.
I know that it’s impossible. How can LB know any better when being inside me is all LB knows? I wonder how many of these fears are my own and how long I’ll be able to contain them before LB grows wise to my deception.
