Hello from Heartburn Hell (dang V8 juice),
The concept of "all babies are miracles" has always struck me as slightly odd. When I think of a miracle, I think of some rare occurence like winning the lottery. Excuse me, but isn't the earth's population...what...six billion? Seven billion? Something like that. At any rate, that's a lot of babies - far too many to classify each one as a "miracle" in my book. It seems like all most people have to do is get their genitals together to exchange high-fives, and BOOM - an infant materializes.
Of course, all of that goes out the window once you enter the TTC/IF/KuKd universe, where a baby suddenly is - really now - a miracle. A good east-coast friend had a baby within the last 48 hours. She's worked so hard for this baby, which gives his birth a special miraculous quality. More deets later on that friend, once she's stepped out of her baby-delivery daze and brought the little guy home from the hospital. There's a lot to say about her.
In the meantime, that fuzzy mobile-phone picture of her little guy made me wonder suddenly what I simply haven't the brain-capability to wonder very often: will our baby come too?
Will we have our moment in the hospital, just over three months from now? Will I push and scream out strings of profanity as Kevin holds my hand with that wide-eyed stricken look of a jacked-up wild animal? And moments later will there be the shrill cry of a newborn, as is supposed to happen? Will I be taking pictures of that squinty-eyed baby to send to the world? Will I walk into my office building and get bear-hugs from everyone? Will our phone be ringing as casseroles pile up at our doorstep? Will somebody throw me a baby shower? Will there be sunlight slanting through the windows at my baby shower, and chicken-salad-croissant sandwiches arranged beautifully on glass plates, served with chilled champagne? Will I sit perched and glowing on our green Ikea chair, opening presents and holding up little onesies? Will Kevin and I do a celebratory shot of whiskey, ensuring our little Irish guy gets a high-end first dose of breastmilk?
Of course, I have to believe that yes, it's all on its way like a freight train in the distance rumbling toward me with unwavering certainty. How can I not believe? When so much of what I injest, think, feel, shit, say, and do relates in some way to this kickboxing, penis-toting gymnast now inhabiting my body cavity, how can I not freefall into expectant hope? I'm not reading any baby books or doing any childbirth classes, no reading up on parenting strategies or nearby preschools, no talking incessantly about baby-this and baby-that, no postulating on where the baby will sleep or how we'll work out the logistics of whatever. Nope. I trust those thoughts and conversations to come when they have to. Right now, the hope and belief are deeper and quieter than all those surface elements of pregnancy-craze. It's more like a subtle little dialogue inside my head between me and him. The fetus, that is.
You're coming, aren't you?
If he comes, when he comes, he'll fit - I'm pretty damn sure - my narrow definition of a miracle, as does my friend's newborn boy. He'll be a miracle to me because he won't have come easily, or without an earlier price. And if on the off-chance he doesn't come, well, that's beyond what I can remotely imagine. So let's not even go there.
Let's take a Tums and go to bed instead. :-)