I'm not entirely sure why I'm so fascinated by this - but I am. Nineteen children... can you imagine? And yet, I'm insanely jealous. I think this is probably my last pregnancy, I'm thirty five, Marc's already 40. The kids are getting bigger, we're running out of room as it is. Lilli will be 11 years older than this baby. There's lots of logical reasons why this is probably the end of child bearing for me. But I hear about her having another baby and am all happy for her.
I don't like the first trimester. I LOVE being pregnant, love feeling the baby move, love the morning sickness (I do, actually). I love the cravings, the smiles from people on the street, I love going to the OB and hearing the heartbeat, I love having to watch what I eat, make sure I get enough water. I walk around feeling magical. Like I'm literally made with fairy dust, somehow so much more than I was before. I love the shape of my body, I love the way maternity clothes look. I love everything about it - except for the first trimester. If I could just fast forward to where I knew that it was a viable pregnancy, if I could just skip ahead to Week 14, I'd be very pleased with myself right now.
Last day of summer vacation - and I'm missing my girl already. I'm making chocolate chip cookies and popping popcorn for Jessie's snack, and packing her backpack and getting clothes ready.