Today I’m six months pregnant.
I’ve been pregnant for half a year. 180 days. Longer than My So-Called Life was on air.
Like my baby boy, this post has been incubating for some time.
My sentimental soon-to-be-brother-in-law recently asked me to write something emotional about pregnancy.
“I want to read your feelings on the subject,” he said.
I told him I’d get around to it.
So here goes:
Pregnancy is a strange and beautiful thing.
For eight bucks I purchased a stick at CVS. I peed on it and I took a bath.
I shaved my legs and I read an issue of Vogue. I let the stick sit for a while on the bathroom counter because I was too nervous to look at it.
When I emerged from the tub, I tiptoed past it as if it were already a sleeping baby and I closed my eyes because I was too nervous to look at it.
I walked into my bedroom and slipped into a pair of PJ pants. I headed for the living room and as I passed the bathroom, I turned my head away from the door because I was too nervous to look at it.
I sat on the couch beside my husband and thought about the work I had yet to do.
Pregnancy tests develop in three minutes. Yet I let mine sit for half an hour; long enough for Joe to watch The Daily Show because I was too nervous to look at it.