(The salad days of pregnancy)
Rachel is trying everything she can to encourage her body to induce labor: sex, spicy foods, exercise, meditation, yoga, evening primrose oil, nipple stimulation, visualization, witchcraft. All of it. Every time I look at her she is bouncing up and down. It's really something. The unborn child already takes after me, impossible to get out of bed, even though it's not sleeping.
We have gone over our plans, packed our hospital bags, checked and rechecked the details on everything. I'm bored with it all, but don't tell Rachel. She sees each and every detail as being somehow imbued with the divine. She's probably doing her baby-bounce-dance to Lucina and Vagitanus as I write this.
I had a great picture of her belly but she wouldn't let me use it. Apparently it is beautiful and spiritual and a gift from god when it is being shown in person or seen across the many endless pages of women's magazines but somehow an object of discomfort here. So be it.
If you can't tell I am tiring of the pregnancy thing a little bit. Everybody says the payoff makes it all worth it. Everybody that has children, that is. My other friends just smile and congratulate me with generic encouragement. Nobody I know ever says that they regret having children. But they all take deep breaths and emphasize that it is "the hardest thing you'll ever do." Sure, that just makes sense. The little creatures can't feed themselves. It's work from day one on, without cessation. Your life becomes dedicated to the fortification of another.
I feel like I'm not done fortifying myself yet. I've never even balanced my checkbook. Ever.
What am I supposed to do now.... we're practically breaching here. I'm sure there's information online about balancing checkbooks. Who knows, Goldman Sachs would probably be happy to do it for me. Soon it'll probably be mandated by law that they do.