Thank you very much, stupid pregnancy book, for telling me what the miscarriage rate is for S’s age group. It was like a car crash I could not look away from. And there it was. A really crappy statistic. For the first time since S got pregnant (I know! surprising for how pessimistic I usually am, right?) I felt absolutely terrified in my bones that something would happen. And by “something” I mean miscarriage, dead baby, whatever. Bad news. Pain. Devastation. Starting over.
I know it is ridiculous that I have not previously been terrified in my bones, especially after being witness, in person, to WTF’s many horrors. But I have not gone there. I am in a very nice denial bubble, and it almost popped today. Almost. My logical brain keeps telling me that if “something” happens it will not be made easier by trying to protect myself right??
So I’m goin’ for it: maternity clothes, telling people, telling LM, pregnant summer plans, baby name books, and the bold assumption that we will have a happy, peaceful, red, wrinkly, holiday baby (due date is December 27th). Lord help us. It better fucking happen.