Bittersweet

I am 28 weeks pregnant, and I'm high risk (just like last time).  A second (viable) pregnancy is different from a first pregnancy in so many ways. 

For instance, my daughter moved so much and so violently in the womb that we nicknamed her "Ninja Baby."  She was never still. Every movement was HARD and forceful, making my tight uterus undulate visibly, my bump rarely stationary. 

This baby, our one and only boy, is mellow.  He is still most of the day.  The majority of his movements are gentle, even in this, my third trimester.  He is my guppy, swimming calmly in the waters of my womb. I can barely feel him most of the time.

No one thought I'd make it this far.  I distanced myself emotionally from this baby as much as I could in the beginning stages of this pregnancy, fearful of another miscarriage.  But he's still here, and he is so very loved.

This is my final pregnancy.  My maternal fetal medical specialist told me he thought he could get me through this pregnancy and delivery, but bluntly stated that if I got pregnant again I would likely die. Our son will be born via scheduled and medically necessary cesarean section, and my tubes will be tied during the c-section.  No one told me how sad your last pregnancy could be, how bittersweet.

This is the last time my body will suffer through hyperemesis gravidarum.  This is the last time I will endure pregnancy related bed rest.  Pregnancy is hard on my body and this is the last one.  As I enter my third trimester I am struck by awe that I will have new little baby soon, and I am saddened that this baby will be my last baby. I am saddened by all the lasts these final weeks of pregnancy bring.

This was the last time I will ever pee on a stick and become elated and scared upon seeing two pink lines.  It is the last time I will see a tiny fetus on a screen at my first ultrasound, and the last time I will hear the rapid fetal heartbeat of a baby growing in my womb with a doppler.  It is the last time I will feel sweet baby kicks from the inside.  It is the last time I will cradle my belly and whisper softly to a child, my child, who is cradled gently inside my body--safe and warm.  It is the last time I will watch in awe as my body changes and grows to support a human life.  It is bittersweet.

These are also the last few weeks that my four year old will be the baby of the family.  She will be such a good big sister.  She likes to talk to my belly, telling her brother secrets.  She rubs lotion on my baby bump and carefully smears some in my belly button, saying, "I think him likes the way this smells. It smells good. Now he can smell it too."  She finds toys she played with when she was a baby and brings them to me, "I think the baby will like this mama," she says.  It is all so sweet.  But as long as he's safe in my womb, she's still the baby.

She still crawls into my bed at 3am, snuggling into my arms and falling back to sleep with her head tucked under my chin.  She still runs into my arms with wild abandon, giggling "I love you" and requesting "mommy cuddles" at intervals all day long.  She still climbs into my lap whenever she wants, and she wants that a lot.  And I know this will change somehow, in small subtle ways, once her brother is born.  And that too is oh so bittersweet.

So I will squeeze her a little tighter in these last few weeks of pregnancy. I will hold her a little longer.  I will kiss her cheeks and relish her tiny hands held inside my own. I will breathe her in, my baby, my youngest child for just a few more short weeks.