…so I’m just going to say it.
Yes, my son – my baby – is only nine months old.
Yes, he will have crossed a year when the new baby comes. A year and two months. I’m quite proud of those two extra months.
Yes, you can laugh. My best friends called me from distant shores to laugh.* So feel free.
How, you ask?
Let’s just say the old-fashioned way. So old fashioned that contraception was not invented yet. When sperm-thingies swam unimpeded up to meet egg-thingies. I won’t go on. You know the drill.
Here I have no answer. Except to say nature conspires to make sex most pleasurable when the time for babymaking is ideal. Lust trumps good sense. This is what we caution teenagers about. Except I’m not a teenager.
And so I found myself weeing on a stick yet again. Like last time, I already knew. Unlike last time, this time the husband said: “shit!”.
So what else is new?
Nothing. Those who told me that if you have two babies close together, the nausea is less were LIARS. The urge to puke is the same. The aversion to foods is the same, only the foods are different. (Indian food this time making it harder).
This time I also have a baby. I mean in addition to the smaller baby growing inside me. Sometimes when I’m holding my bigger baby (Benji), I think, wow, I’m carrying two babies at once. Whee!
Except it’s not always whee. There were three months when I spent very little time with my big baby because my small baby was making me feel like shit. Still does, sometimes, but it’s getting better. Luckily, my husband and helper are excellent and big baby is blissfully unaware that he is no longer the centre of the universe. He has all the attention he wants. The only one that feel regretful is me.
I feel more tired this time, and that is probably due to having two pregnancies so close together. I have anemia, and now must take the dreaded supplements. I even have the same infection down there that I had last time. But I have found a doctor who is with me on ignoring the infection and not worsening my nausea by taking antibiotics.
There is also the small matter of banks laying off staff and thus job insecurity in the husband’s world. But I will not complain about this. We are not badly off. I have a job. I am glad I listened to husband when he said, don’t quit.
I had to tell work I’m going to be on maternity leave again and I thanked God again for the blessing of my job, where my bosses, the goddesses, just said: it’s fine, family is important, congratulations, we’re happy for you.
Do I sound unhappy? Well, sometimes I am. When I am choking back the puke. Or when the threat of antibiotics raises its head.
But mostly, I’m glad. I believe babies come when they must. And this baby came now, shoving aside all my objections. This baby will be Benji’s sibling and friend before he has a chance to feel jealous (I hope). I wanted two babies and now I will have them.
This baby feels different. This baby is more peaceful. I am more peaceful. I will burgeon like a whale and pay no attention to nurses who tell me to eat less. I ignore the odd twinges. I eat everything, everything – except the things I am averse to of course.
We’re calling this baby Schmoonbee. Because Benji is Schmooney and this is a baby-schmoon. Also a schmoon, part B. (Before you ask, there will be no part C).
So yeah. Go keel over in shock. I’ll just have that extra doughnut now.
*Post on that soon.