As I mentioned briefly in a response to a comment on the last post, I now feel comfortably as though I will be pregnant forever; I’m used to it, and it’s not so bad, now that I’m sleeping. There is no possibility of impatience, because there is no end coming—I’ll be pregnant at Christmas, and then no drinking at New Year’s! and I wonder whatever we will do for pregnant Valentine’s Day. And so on. Part of this is probably because my body is good at being pregnant: oh, sure, I have the usual small complaints of sore joints and acid reflux, I break out a bit, but no swelling, no blood pressure problems, no metabolic wackiness. I teeter along pretty cheerfully, more tired than I used to be. Spices make me sneeze and I crave ice; these are changes I can live with.
I’ve been craving ice for months, by the way, and afraid to tell you lest someone mention pica. I craved ice last time, too, and never moved on to wanting to eat the stuffing out of cushions or anything like that, and now I’ve decided that it’s an excellent evolutionary bobble—the kiddo is head down perhaps in part to avoid the ice cream headaches that would otherwise seem inevitable. As it is, when I eat ice chips, I get grumbly kicks from downstairs almost every time.
The husband taunting is going really well so far. Last night he was watching a horror movie as part of his extended salute to Halloween while I worked at my computer in another room—this is one of my very favorite things, as his occasional shouts of “Oh, God!” or horrified noises are charming and entertaining both. Afterwards I walked with him to the mailbox to drop off the film, and at one point I suggested that it was time to “jump start this thing” and started jumping up and down while he worried and explained that I really ought to stop before I jolted the kid loose. My third-grade sense of humor is satisfied. Part of the goofiness was finishing my work—I was punch drunk, having wrapped up something that was supposed to be a little job and ended up being kind of a beast. Hearing the details of my freelance work bores the pants off of even the people who love me, so I’ll leave it at that, but now it is done and I can turn my attention to nesting full time.
This feels like a weirdly magical interlude. My sanguine belief in permanent pregnancy is, I know, rather like pretending that tomorrow isn’t Christmas so that you can just get to sleep already; even when it works, you know deep down what happens in the morning, and it’s wonderful. This period of waiting together with the Mister is weirdly romantic. I’ve read before that marital satisfaction drops off sharply after the birth of a child (and if I make it through this paragraph without mistyping that as “martial” at least once, it will be a minor miracle), and I’ve also read that it ain’t necessarily so, and now I’ve finally read the result I want to hear and am done researching the issue forever: couples who, before kids, spoke warmly and with interest of one another to others before the baby actually have a slight bump in marital satisfaction once they’re a trio. I shared this with the Mister: “That makes sense,” he said. “I’m really excited about doing this with you.”