I am trying to appreciate this pregnancy, and not hurry it up. I am so impatient, already I am counting weeks until the ultrasound, counting weeks until the end of the first trimester, counting weeks until the birth—feeling restless and anxious for time to pass.

When I was pregnant with the twins, I thought it would be my last pregnancy, and so I had a little rejoicing/mourning thing going with each new thing: “Woo hoo, that was the LAST morning sickness! Ohhh, that was the last time I’ll feel ‘the first real kick’,” etc. After the babies were born, I felt a little pang of envy every time I read a book where a character discovers she’s pregnant. I wished for that feeling again, that feeling when you see the second line appear. I wished for the anticipation: will the baby be a boy or a girl, and what will he/she look like, and when will he/she be here? I wished for that feeling of having a secret passenger—and then, later, of that feeling that everyone can see that you’re working on something important.

Of course, as soon as I get the unexpected treat of experiencing that anticipation and those feelings again, I start RUSHING it. Oh, god, I’m not even six weeks, why can’t things move faster? I am trying not to do that. I’m trying to enjoy the knowledge that I Am Pregnant, and trying to enjoy the fun of not knowing everything yet. It is difficult, though, to fully enjoy The Moment when I feel like I’m going to start barfing any minute now.