As I sit here with a giant bump, switching between bouncing on a birthing ball, trying to do some last minute work, and day-dreaming into thin air, it has occurred to me that I am approaching the very last few days of pregnancy.
The very last days that I will feel a baby beneath my ribs.
The very last days that I will heave myself out of bed and waddle to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
The very last days that I will have to say ‘decaffeinated, please’ or cover my glass with my hand when a waiter approaches the table with a bottle of wine.
The very last days that I will have to pull a maternity dress out of a wardrobe, while wishing I could just climb back into my pyjamas.
An era of my life, which I have enjoyed so very much, is coming to an end.
I will probably never carry another baby (I say probably, because the husband occasionally mutters something about a fourth and I am not entirely convinced he’s joking) – and the truth is that it feels a bit strange.
I will no longer need a drawer where I stash my pregnancy things ‘for the next time’ like a doppler, a support belt, and a TENS machine that has never even been taken out the box. I can pass it onto another lady who is about to start her journey or add them to the ever-growing pile of baby things that I intend to sell.
I can delete the files on my laptop instructing me what to pack in a hospital bag, along with the documents I saved from my antenatal class five years ago about delightful things like perineal massage. I won’t need those things anymore. Better to save space on my laptop for school reports, photos of children splashing in the sea, and packing check-lists for our next long-haul adventure.
It is nearly over now.
And when the time comes, I will waddle into that hospital ward a pregnant mother, feeling youthful and fertile and full of excitement – and if all goes to plan (god willing), I will waddle out again a few days later with a newborn baby and the chapter of my life that was all about growing babies finally shut for business.
I don’t know how I’ll feel on that day – but at the moment, I don’t think I’ll feel any sorrow. How could I? Not when I have the fruits of nine months of pregnancy sleeping in a car seat next to me, as we make our way back home to plant big kisses on our waiting boys.
I know how lucky I am to have my two – and nearly three – little people in my life and I don’t take it for granted for a second. But pregnancy is hard and my body is finished – and despite feeling kind of sad that I will never again feel a baby prod and kick and squirm inside me, I feel it is time to say goodbye to that.
I am ready for it to be over.
And the future fills me with excitement. Two boys and their little sister, growing up before my eyes. Time to focus on them, without having to say: “Mummy is tired today, can we just watch another episode of Max and Ruby?” The ability to jump out of bed during the night at a moment’s notice if they need me – and not have to kick the husband awake to run to their aid. The energy to take them outside and let them play, knowing I can chase my spirited middle child if he decided to do a runner.
I am ready to be myself again.
And enjoy them.
The three of them.
So pregnancy; you have been so very good to me. You have given me things I always dreamt about – and so much more. I have loved growing, feeling, and waiting.
But I am ready for it to be over.
I am ready to meet her.
I think, at least.