I guess I could have told you how the baby was throwing more fist pumps than Pauly D at the 12 week ultrasound.
I could have told you about the time I had a wacky first trimester craving for broccoli, ate almost an entire head and spent half the night throwing up green. That was fun.
I could have told you how Lotte is determined to name this kid Angus, after Merida’s horse in Brave, with Puss in Boots in a close second.
I could have told you how I knew something was up when I woke up one morning absolutely repulsed by my Starbucks soy latte, and gagged at the thought of wine later that night.
I could have told you that I peed on no less than four tests in one day because I just couldn’t believe my eyes and had been convinced my uterus was a wicked bitch.
I could have told you about the emotion I heard in Pete’s usually calm demeanor when I told him he was having a boy.
I could have told you how the cat and dog have been glued to my side since conception because of their insane animal spidey-sense. They knew before I knew.
I could have had Lotte holding up a cute picture of a sonogram, or put up a belly shot at 12 weeks, or Instagramed the four positive tests, or released blue balloons, or set off fireworks, or paid for sky writing or something
but I didn’t.
I didn’t because at seven weeks I found out I had another subchorionic hematoma, just like the one that caused my miscarriage last spring.
I didn’t because at ten weeks, the day after the tragedy at Sandy Hook, I started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the emergency room…again.
I didn’t because I was immediately placed on bed rest and have done nothing more stimulating than discuss Mob Wives with the cat for months.
I didn’t because after my 12 week peek at the little fist-pumping chicklet, my doctor told me the hematoma had grown to 9 centimeters and she wouldn’t even give me 50/50 odds. At 12 weeks. With a perfectly healthy baby.
I didn’t because I spent a few months crying, staring out the window, calling my uterus a wench, crying harder, getting angry and feeling sorry for myself.
I didn’t because I was gripped by terror every time I peed, stood up, changed position, walked, coughed, sneezed, laughed or breathed too heavily, as if my heart could get snatched from my chest at any moment and I was sure I wouldn’t recover this time.
I didn’t…but then at 18 weeks both of my doctors started smiling rather than mumbling, scowling and scratching their heads.
For the very first time I heard the beautiful words, “Everything looks great. It’s going to be okay.”.
The bastard blood clot was shrinking and healing and leaving my body, and for the first time everyone was allowed to be happy. I was allowed to be happy. This was going to happen.
At 21 weeks the clot is barely noticeable on the ultrasound: a small sliver of gray lurking underneath the little boy who can often be seen jamming his fingers in his mouth and gleefully chugging his own urine. While the doctors all expect the hematoma to be completely dissolved by the next office visit, I am still at risk for pre-term labor so I will most likely be spending the remainder of this pregnancy watching more Mob Wives with the cat. (I think she likes Ramona, but I’m Team Drita all the way.)
Now, rather than seeing my couch-ridden days as the precursor of doom and heartache, I’m starting to enjoy the quiet moments when I can feel the little man thump around in my belly after pancakes and blood oranges. I can chat with him, tell him all about his big sister with baby blues as big as saucers and a penchant for acting like a bobcat for days at a time.
I can tell him how he’s going to keep cooking in my belly for quite a while, how it makes me laugh that I’m growing a tiny penis, and how I have never before changed a boy’s diaper so we’re both up shit’s creek.
I can tell him how he has some grandparents who are chomping at the bit to buy things for the first boy in the family for miles, and I can also tell you.
This was one hell of a secret.