Although it has not, by any means, been a garden variety pregnancy, I can’t help but feel that compared to his sister, this little boy in my belly is on his way to being quite normal. Average, even. Boring. Which are all very good things if the contrast is what my experience with Kiera was.
I’m sitting in bed this morning and it’s hit me that at best, I have 6 weeks to go before this little son of mine becomes a real human who should be, god willing, breathing on his own and living his own life. Yesterday the cot was assembled after about 5 trips to the hardware store and I had a moment where I walked into his room last night and gulped down a few tears. This is really, really, real. And even if I go into labour now, my child has an above average chance of living without major damage or complications.
I’ve even found that I’m starting to see myself in a normal maternity ward with my child in his little cot next to me – rather than in an NICU. I’ve dared to hope that when he’s taken out of me, I might even be able to have him placed on my chest to have a kiss, possibly even a go at the boobs for breastfeeding, rather than have him whipped away and rushed away for emergency treatment. I’ve taken the liberty to hope that when he comes home, in a few days rather than weeks and months like his sister, it might be necessary to only have an apnea mat, rather than oxygen machines, pipes and fifty million medications and nebulisers.
It’s scary, this hope, because what if it still all goes wrong? What will I do? I’ll cope, that’s what. And I’ll be there for Jon as he learns about the belly-up journey for the first time, but if I don’t have to do all of that, I’ll be so grateful. Heck, I already am – because this baby is going to be fine. Because we’ve all willed him to be fine. And we’ve done a great job so far.
So please, just a few more weeks left – please will him into going the full haul along with me. 28 weeks and counting, I aim to get to 35, minimum.