Questions, Comments, Pithy Observations?

My first year property professor in law school was a character. A stick thin wisp of a man with a shocking puff of white hair and out of control nose hair. My roommate called it party favor nose hair. I love that phrase, I still think of it when I see someone who could use a little trim. He's probably one of the foremost experts on property law in the United States. We spent hours mocking him. Envy, I'm sure. Of the brilliance, not the nose hair.

He ended every lecture with that phrase in a Ferris Bueller monotone. Questions? Comments? Pithy Observations? He never got, nor do I think he expected, any. I have backwards looking respect for a man who can use the word pithy with such confidence.

I've had some questions about our baby in progress in my comments and emails lately and, of course, all of your observations are lovely and pithy too.

Fifteen weeks yesterday, with a strong heartbeat. The second trimester. Sigh of relief. And sigh of regret. Where did that time go? My last first trimester. Wished away, endured away really, along with the sickness and tiredness and fear of loss and general not myselfness. This should be the fun part. I've enjoyed my other pregnancies from this point. Fingers crossed!

Thanks to everyone who has asked if we'll find out the baby flavor ahead of time. I think we are going to wait for the big reveal at the final moment. We gleefully found out that Gee was a boy the moment we could. We waged a 'will we find out the sex' war at Cue's twenty week ultrasound, which left the technician thinking we were fit to be no one's parents, boy or girl. I wanted to wait. Matt was dying to know. I was so disappointed (about not getting to have that special birth moment announcement, not about Cue's sex) that I think Matt is feeling more supportive this time. If he pushes me, I'll crumble because secrets are not my strong point. (My own secrets, I'm fine with other people's confidences.)

The belly shot requests. You all are brave! There's nothing good to see there. I'm the same number of weeks as Dooce, go check it out, she has a much cuter ass. I'm sorry to say that there is quite a belly at almost four months. Sadness. My first pregnancy, I got frustrated because I wasn't showing at six months. Foolish, foolish child. Those stomach muscles are long gone, never to return.

Brace yourself. I call this squinty flushed pregnant woman against a bare white backdrop.


And that in a picture is why I pay for a photo shoot once a year with a professional photographer. Please don't blow it up, you might get a glimpse of my party favor nose hair.

Someone asked, joking with me, if I'll be thrilled when this pregnancy is over. I laughed while my heart skipped. Will I? I am beyond glad that the nausea and tiredness are passing. But I don't want this to be over. Or I do, but I also want it to last forever. When it's over, my babies will be four. When it's over, I'll never feel this way again, this special secret warmth that is carrying a baby.

I want to stay right here, pregnant with my last baby, slurping up the cuteness of my eighteen-month-old in huge gulps. The truth is I would play the alphabet game endlessly (and bitch about it to you) to steal extra time like this, right now, with my three-year-olds that slough off baby like it's a molting skin, a little more every day. I want to have brain freeze from living it so hard, so intensely. I want it engraved in my mind and my heart forever. That's what I want.

And, I want it to be over. Because there's always good things ahead. That tiny little pumpkin newborn snuggle. The way their lips suckle in their sleep. Watching my big kids meet their new baby brother or sister for the first time.

Oooooooh. Hearts and rainbows. Don't worry, in three short weeks, I'll start bitching about the snow.