and the weekly progress of our pregnancies is an intimate experience we’ve shared. Some of the other women and I go to prenatal yoga together on the weekends, and I’ve taken a particular liking to the French-Canadian couple who often sit next to us.
The familiar faces are all there tonight, along with three new attendees. A few of the couples have given birth already and are there with their newborns. They are so small, their scrunched-up faces looking even smaller beneath the layers their parents have swaddled them with. “We don’t know how much to dress them in!” they exclaim. I can’t imagine how completely their lives have changed, but I watch in wonder as they navigate the needy cries of these tiny humans. Aaron and I gape at each other, communicating without words. All of a sudden, everything seems to be happening very quickly.
As we’re called away from the group for our checkup with our midwife, I think again about how lucky I’ve been to have a healthy pregnancy, free of complications. This is in contrast to the complicated birth stories my mother has to tell. With me, the oldest, my mother developed a liver disorder called ICP and had to be induced at thirty-eight weeks. With my middle sister, Alana, my mother slipped on ice at thirty weeks and ruptured her membranes, then developed gestational diabetes while on bed rest, delivering by cesarean a few weeks later when the baby went into distress. Alana, born at a relatively healthy five pounds, only spent a few days in the neonatal intensive care unit under the bili lights for jaundice. With my youngest sister, Rebecca, my mother had dangerously high blood pressure and required another emergency cesarean at thirty-three weeks. Born at only three pounds, Rebecca spent time in the NICU too.
So I was expecting complicated. Because of my mother’s history, I’ve been monitored a little more closely than normal—borderline tests redone and a few extra ordered when necessary. But at each appointment my unremarkable results have been attributed to my youth and active lifestyle. The baby is always lively, his heartbeat is strong, his growth on track. With every passing week I’ve grown more convinced of the assurances of the birth team that everything will continue to be normal.
We step into the sectioned-off area near the front where our midwife, Fiona, is waiting. She asks us how we’re doing. I say we’re fine, just fine, and ask if she can guess the baby’s weight. The only thing I am a little bit nervous about is him fitting out of me. My hips are narrow, and I am not entirely convinced a baby can exit through them. Surely a lot of bones will have to shift. Fiona laughs and places her hands on my belly, feeling around our baby’s body and smiling at the nudges he gives her. She estimates seven and a half pounds, and I let out a sigh of relief. I can do seven pounds.
“Of course,” she says, “it’s only my best guess.” Sensing that I need reassurance, she adds, “I will say, I’m usually very close.” She grabs the Doppler off the top of her desk to monitor his heart rate. “Let’s have a listen, shall we?”
I know the drill. I lift up my shirt and watch the wand slide the jelly down the slope of my bump. Immediately, we hear the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
“All is good! What a chill baby,” Fiona notes, moving the Doppler around a bit.
I listen to the sound of his heartbeat. Like a galloping horse. The rhythmic melody circles around the room. But a tiny voice speaks up from the back of my mind through the noise. Is it a bit slower than usual? I shush it. Everything is fine. We are fine. Nothing bad can happen at this point. We are nearly there, almost home. The voice goes away and I return to listening to the beating of his heart. A little longer, I suggest. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
2
SLOWLY, HEAVILY, I blink open my eyes. Looking to the still-made sheets where Aaron’s body should be, I rub a hand over my swollen belly, waiting for a kick. Aaron must have slept on the couch again. He’s been doing that on the nights when sleep doesn’t come. He gets too hot. And, apparently, pregnancy makes me snore.
I look to the clock. It’s 9:31 AM, Friday, April 3, the day before our due date, which falls on a total lunar eclipse, a full blood moon. Today is also Good Friday, and for weeks now I’ve been greeted by Easter decorations whenever I leave home. I’ve spent my pregnancy preparing for an Easter baby, so they’ve made our child’s anticipated birth even more real.
Last night, Aaron and I walked to the drugstore on the corner to buy some Cadbury Eggs to satisfy an urgent craving. When we reached the till to pay we were greeted by a friendly woman with happy cheeks and wiry black hair. “Oh my god! When are you due?” she shouted upon seeing my belly. I smiled at her and rubbed the little feet poking at my side as I replied that my due date was on Saturday. She clucked and said she would be flat on her back at home if she were two days away from having her baby. I don’t know why, but hearing that made me proud. Even if I was only out to buy myself a family-sized bag of chocolate, I felt powerful in that moment.
Fully awake now, I roll over to my left side and gently press myself up to sit. The bed creaks in protest, and so do my aching joints. I pivot my body to face the edge and extend a leg to reach for the stepping stool. With an arched back, I cling to the sheets to get a few inches further and wrap my toes around the wooden rail to drag it closer. Aaron built the bed from scratch last year and I demanded it be enormous, the biggest bed he could make. It seems a little excessive now, given that I need a small ladder to get my large belly in and out of it.
I grab my robe and tie it loosely around my body; I have been mostly sleeping in underwear, since even Aaron’s shirts don’t fit me anymore. My toe joints crack against the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Once there, I peek my head around the wall of the pass-through and see Aaron at the desk. He has the day off from work for the holiday weekend and is busy doing taxes. I fight the urge to remind him he needs to have them finished by tomorrow, our due date, like he promised.
“Morning,” I manage through a yawn.
He turns around and flashes a smile. “Oh, hi!” Then, directed toward my belly: “Good morning!”
I bend over to kiss his forehead and he returns one to our baby, then I shuffle back to the kitchen for food. I settle on granola, my staple over the last trimester. I bring the bowl to the bedroom and climb back into bed. Balancing the bowl on my belly, I crunch on oat clusters and browse through the various apps on my phone.
Then I hear the voice again, that of a worried mother. It has spoken only a few times during my pregnancy: when I noticed a speckle of blood at five weeks; at our anatomy ultrasound when it showed something unexpected; when my midwife suggested further testing to rule out gestational hypertension; and earlier this week at our appointment when the heartbeat seemed a little slower than usual. Now I hear it again, bellowing at me: He hasn’t kicked yet!
I shush it. Everything is fine; everything is always fine. I feel ridiculous for even entertaining the worry. I climb out of bed to grab my computer. I think about opening up Netflix to watch Parenthood, the show I started earlier this week, in an effort to distract myself. Lauren Graham is in it and as a Gilmore Girls fan that’s about all it needed to win my love. But the voice only grows louder. Why hasn’t he moved?
I grab my phone. It’s 10:05 AM. I quickly search “Brittany” and type:
So close to our due dates! How are you feeling?
I put the phone on the pillow and wait. Brittany, my blond-haired, bright-eyed, full-of-life friend, is due the day after me, April 5, and we’ve talked nearly every day of our pregnancies.
10:42 AM. My phone buzzes. Brittany’s reply reads:
I can’t believe
