I was recently asked if I’m done being pregnant yet. Not that the baby is done cooking or my time is up or anything, but more along the lines of frustration or discomfort and an urge for it all to be over and out of my body.

I’m sure I’ll get to that point eventually. But for now, I’m still ceaselessly amused by what my body is doing and the little creature dwelling inside it. Most of the time, I feel amazing and beautiful. I am in awe of myself for doing this, and I probably blush a little whenever James thanks me for it.

When the little one starts squirming around or punching and kicking, I am enthralled. This is not because of something I ate for lunch. This is not illness. This is not like anything my body has ever felt before. This is the result of one particular night of love between a husband and a wife way back in February. This is human. This is our child. And it is growing and moving without any instruction from me. But it is also such a part of me that I find my head spinning a little bit.

Whenever I have a mild discomfort or complaint, James reminds me that this will all be over soon, and the baby will no longer need to squish my organs or weigh me down from the inside. To which I respond that despite my complaints, I am having the best time. And after the birth, it will be a lot more difficult to haul this child around, to keep it fed and warm and comfortable, than it’s been to keep it tucked right here in me.

Of course, you may have to remind me of all these happy pregnant feelings when I’m waddling through my ninth month, but in the meantime, I am still smiling.


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