This is Week 19, so we’re almost halfway through. The surges of emotion-jarring, exhaustion-inducing hormonal changes of the first trimester are past while the heavy work of the final months still have yet to come. As my wife says, the middle is the easiest, and the happiest.
It’s almost like nature gives mothers one final break before the burden of the third trimester begins. Her stomach is swollen, but not heavy. Her weight up, but just enough.
And of course, the reality of a crying, pooping, spitting baby who knows no clock is still far, far ahead. With a smugness which only the childless possess, we shake our heads at the misbehavior of others’ kids. Our child will never do that. (And feel free to remind me of this in a few years…)
We breath a bit easier with the fear of an early miscarriage well past. One down, one to go.
They never could say what made it go wrong. Every so often, some disease so rare to remain nameless steals the life of another parent’s child. Without a name, without a cause, we can only hope that the terrible illness will not return. That the development will be normal. That we can pray for an ordinary miracle of a healthy birth.
Still, we dare. We dare to dream and we dare to believe. Catalogs of baby clothes, crying of world-class cuteness clutter our carpets. Schools, extracurricular activities and sports are debated for the future of a child whose tastes – let alone gender – is still unknown.
The doctors, vigilantly scan beta-chan’s head for the slightest suggestion of irregularity. So far, so good. Beta’s head is the right size, and no fluid.
They spend more time there, than sneaking peeks between the legs, so consequently we still don’t know the sex.
They’ll be looking every two to three weeks, and the next check-up is in two weeks. We’re approaching the period when Pough-chan’s troubles were first discovered, and if the unthinkable were to happen again, it will be soon. Please, our fingers and toes crossed in luck, let May and June come and go without news.
Let there be normal.