As the weather draws in I find myself listening to one
particular album in the car that until the day I die will evoke feeling in me
associated with being pregnant in autumn. It feels odd that I’m not listening
to it on a countdown to birth, but it still makes me feel sanguine and hopeful
and reminds me that I will bring a new life into the world.
Which is not bad for a bloke with a beard and a love of
vintage tractors.
I try to remind myself to remember little things about this
pregnancy, despite the fact that there are a million things to distract me. In
some ways it’s nice to feel the occasional kick and to almost be taken my surprise
again. Oh yeah, I’m pregnant.
I’m 13 weeks now, which is just crazy talk, and we are
getting to that point where you slowly start to chew over names and sleeping
arrangements.
Ah yes, sleeping arrangements. Or more accurately as my
friend described it, a life size game of Tetris.
You start to allow a small glimmer of hope to burn when you
get to 13 weeks. You see that scan and it starts to feel a little bit more
real. You see the fat belly (and that is a FAT belly) and those spindly limbs
and somehow it changes something.
That haphazard collection of strangely proportioned features
become so much bigger than the sum of their parts.
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