I’m just trying to wrap my head around that strange fact.
I mean…she looks like something. Someone. You know?
She’s in there and she already looks like whoever she is and whoever she’s going to be.
Her nose is already her nose. Her mouth is her mouth.
What colour hair does she have? What colour eyes does she have? Does she have long eyelashes? Does she have a birthmark?
Is she pretty? Is she squishy-faced and unfortunate looking?
Does she look like me? Like her father? Like her brother? Like my brother? Like nobody except herself?
I look down at my belly and I can’t answer any of those questions.
I can see her hands and feet as they protrude from my torso while she squirms around. But I don’t know if her fingernails are long, or if her skin is pale like mine or darker like her daddy’s.
At no point during any of my ultrasounds have I been able to confirm she has ten fingers and ten toes. Are they all there? I need to know this.
In the ultrasounds it looks like she has a turned up little pixie nose like her brother. Is that real or an illusion? I need to know this too.
Does my baby have a problem that can’t be picked up on ultrasound or during prenatal medical tests? Is she deaf? Is she blind? Does she have cerebral palsy? Does she have autism? I really need to know this.
I have this huge belly and I have these awful stretch marks and I feel all this movement coming from within me. But it still doesn’t quite seem real that there’s an actual real live baby in there. My baby. In my belly.
I’m not yet associating this huge squirming alien with the concrete idea that the thing inside me is soon going to vacate her premises and then I’ll be a mum. That someone is going to let me walk out of a hospital with a proper baby and take her home with me.
And then I think about the fact that she doesn’t know what I look like either.
What if she’s born and she’s like “Oh so you’re the woman whose babbling I’ve had to listen to for literally my entire life…I thought you’d be blonde and much taller.”
In many ways I feel like I’ve been waiting longer than 8 months to meet her. I’ve been waiting six years.
I was 24 when I started trying to get pregnant and now I’m a month away from my 30th birthday. That’s a long time to build up expectations about what a child with my genetics could look like.
On the one hand I feel like I can’t wait even one more second. I’m too impatient. I need to know now. I need to see her now. I want to look at her face now.
On the other hand I’m terrified. While she’s inside me she’s 100% mine. I don’t have to share her with anyone. She is with me and only me every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
I don’t have to worry about potential future custody battles. I don’t have to hand her over to her father, or her grandparents, or let other people touch her or kiss her or even look at her.
I’m not ready to give up that control yet. I’m not ready to share my baby. I may never be ready.
But there’s nothing I can do about it because time waits for no man and certainly for no baby.
In less than a month I’ll meet my daughter.
In less than a month I’ll see her face.
I think one of the worst parts about life is waiting. But the best part is finally having someone worth waiting for.
I’m waiting for you, baby.
Come meet me, when you’re ready…