It struck me that I’ve been thinking too much of the future here; focusing too much on how this little parasitic humanoid will become a little girl and a strong woman (and, yes, possibly the iron-fisted goddess of the nuclear wasteland formerly known as Oregon.) This is a good thing, but the original point of this blog was to explore and celebrate this particularly unique time in my (our) life—the nine months of pregnancy purgatory.
So perhaps a little update is in order.
We’ve entered the thirty-fifth week. (To all my single male friends (whom I have trouble believing are actually reading this): there are forty weeks in a standard pregnancy.) So, five weeks to go.
Kelly is feeling—hold, on let me ask her—she says she is feeling “fine,” and she says so with a slight lilt of happiness and surprise. So that’s good. She’s been going to prenatal yoga once a week, acupuncture every other week, and swimming about the same, so despite the fact that I frequently notice her looking down at her body in bewilderment—her belly has gone beyond round; it’s now more an uneven oblate spheroid—I think she looks great.
I’ll go get a picture.*
Hmmm. Kelly refuses to have a picture of her posted on the world wide web, and would only agree to a picture if she covered her face, and the closest available face-covering device was, well, my Darth Vader mask.
(God, I try and write a nice, serious little post and it just turns silly. Sometimes I think I’m living in Monty Python’s Flying Circus.)
As you can see in the photo, Kelly is working on a baby quilt, doctorate responsibilities be damned. (You can also see, to the left, an unintentionally-phallic driftwood cat pole I made, which those ungracious little wretches don’t even deign to notice; and, to the right, below the arrows, a fertilty-goddess/demon carving that my brother and sister -in-law gave us as a wedding gift, which apparently works well, though we might have to retire it to the garage in six weeks time.) So I’m not the only one distracted and looking to the future; a future that is rapidly approaching.
And that’s why these times are not at all like purgatory, actually—whereas early in the pregnancy the due date was like seeing someone from a long distance away, so far that you can’t tell if he or she is walking towards you or away from you, it’s now more like something is hurtling impossibly fast at our heads and we don’t know whether to catch it or duck.
(Catch it, we’ll catch it.)
No, you know what it is like? It’s like the moments before running a rapid.
Let’s just say a rapid in the Grand Canyon, as the majority of rapids in the Canyon are formed where side canyons have disgorged enough rocks and boulders to partly dam the Colorado River—the rapids are formed as the river rushes over and down these submerged dams. But the river pools behind these rapid-dams, so that, approaching a major rapid, you float oh so calmly, the water slow and deep, the sound of the rapids nothing but a dull murmur, resonating up the Canyon walls. It’s nice, and peaceful, but always, in the recesses of every thought, is the thought of the rapids ahead. And then you float around the last corner and see them. Except you don’t see them. All you can see from river level is an abrupt line where the river descends the rapids, a line punctuated at times by upthrusts of whitewater splash and the whump-whump of the bigger waves gathering in massive piles and collapsing upon themselves. Closer and closer, and still you only see the drop-off line and you only hear the wild roar of the waves and maybe the wild thumping of your heart, and then for one last moment you are perched at the lip of the rapid, the whole sublime course of waves and holes and rocks spread out before you, the smooth tongue of river quickening into white, and you are in.
Right now we’re at the point where we’re picking up speed and the world is rushing us towards that wonderful point. But we’re not at the lip yet. We still have a few moments to savor the last placid waters. To batten down the hatches. To breathe.
*Note: I’ve not yet posted a picture of K. because I didn’t want this to be one of those blogs: a cute pregnant mombelly blog. So maybe that’s why I grabbed the Darth Vader mask? But whatever—nothing wrong with the occasional cute pregnant mombelly.