My husband is hilarious, my acne is out of control, and Aunt Flow is late.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

"I feel good with my husband. I like his warmth and his bigness and his being there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he's troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don't want to look around anymore. I don't need to look around for anything."
- The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

I really think this man is going to be the best father in history, and I'm not just saying that because I married him and am rather fond of him. I'm saying it because before we were even married, he dreamed about being a father. He would talk and still talks about things he wants to do with our children, places he wants to take them, and how he wants to raise them to have integrity and passion. He thinks of weird baby names and asks for my opinion. His face lights up when he spots a cute baby in public, and he loves to carry on awkward conversations with little kids.

Every night before he heads back to base (he's in training right now, so he has to sleep in the dorms), he looks at me like I'm the most amazing creature to ever walk the Earth. He's taken to calling me 'Mama,' while kissing my belly and saying goodnight to 'whoever might be in there.' He even shushed me the other night when I interrupted his declaration of love to inform him that he was going to be late if he didn't wrap it up. I'm already losing the popularity contest with my belly and we're not even sure whether I'm pregnant or not. Alex swears that I am. With every little thing I do, he's started blurting out, 'YOU'RE PREGNANT!'

"I'm tired," I say. "You're pregnant!," he shouts.

"This Apple is sour. Here, you eat it," I said. "It is not. . . something's wrong with you. You must be pregnant," he said.

"I think I've gained a little weight. My boobs seem a little bigger," I said. "You must be pregnant!," he shouted.

"It's hot in here," I yell, as I'm flinging my clothes off. "It is not. You're just pregnant," he informs me.

I started cleaning the apartment yesterday and he asked me, "Are you nesting? You have to be pregnant." I laughed and informed him that women don't usually start 'nesting' until the third trimester.

I seriously doubt any of these things actually mean that I'm pregnant, but it will be funny if he ends up being right. The only thing that's giving me a twinge of excitement and hope is that I've broken out everywhere, like the worst breakout I've ever had including my teenage years, and I have no explanation. My diet hasn't changed, it was happening long before I changed my skin care bar, and it's constant and not going away. If I'm not pregnant, then I need to make an appointment with a dermatologist because this is getting ridiculous.

This baby will be the greatest gift I'll ever have the pleasure of giving him. It's an astonishing and humbling realization that I get to be the one that brings his child into the world. He has to rely on me to nourish, carry, and birth his children - the responsibility rests solely on my shoulders, and I embrace that, no matter how scary it may seem.

I'm due to have my period today, but so far Aunt Flow is a no show. My cycles aren't super consistent, so I could just be a few days late, but I'm crossing my legs, fingers, and toes, and holding my breath that she's on a nine month vacation. We'll see. . .


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