Thanks for the supportive comments on that last post. The thing about our adoption situation is that it isn’t entirely one thing or the other—Ruth and Nora don’t want us around, but neither have they closed the adoption. They didn’t at all want us to have children after Cricket, but they sent us a baby gift when Joey was born. But it was an awful, pushy gift. So there are really low points, like their totally inappropriate reaction to the news of my last pregnancy. And then yesterday, Cricket wanted to call and sing “Happy Birthday” to me, so Ruth called me up and let him sing. I asked about a Skype date, and she suggested a day. Every time it feels like I’m really hitting the end of my rope, I get reeled in just a bit. Not sure whether I’m glad about that.
But I am, no question, glad that my son sang to me on my birthday. At the end, instead of “and many more,” he sang “and no more.”
Took another pregnancy test, got a much darker line. Also, the heartburn has started. Experiencing optimism. And heartburn.
When I’m alone with Joey, it’s hard not to think about the fact that our time alone isn’t going to last another year. A few days ago, he was curled up on my chest, nursing, and I was stroking his hair—heck, it’s not an unusual thing, and he’ll grow out of it all too soon anyway—but it is a sweet thing that I will be sorry to lose. My mother is encouraging me to wean him after his birthday. She thinks that tandem nursing will crank their sibling rivalry up to eleven; that Joey will try to crowd the baby out, and that my refusal to let him do so will make him hate the baby. I have no intention of weaning Joey, but I know that some nurslings wean themselves during the second half of their mothers’ pregnancies, once the milk starts to taste different. Right now, nurse hurts like you wouldn’t believe . . . but I very much want to keep Joey nursing until he’s two, unless he very much doesn’t want to.
Realistically, there are two things affecting when I tell Ruth and Nora about the possum (setting aside the If): my dislike of keeping secrets, and whether and when they visit us next year. They have told me that they plan to come down for a few days sometime next year—Nora said something vague about January that was the furthest thing from a plan—and if they come here next year and before the baby is born, well, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to disguise myself sufficiently (although I may test that out before they arrive). Maybe I could borrow a couple of shirts from my dad and merely look fat. I know—this is a worry for a later date. But right now, I’m chewing on it.