Hello Worry, My Old Friend

"Hello {worry}, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence." 

What's one great thing about second pregnancies? That you've done it all before. That you know everything will be fine and you can relax and not spend all of your time stressing out. You can stop worrying and enjoy the ride for what it is. Well, that and you're too busy chasing around your toddler to spend all your time worrying about your growing fetus.

Right?

I mean, that's what I was told. And for the most part, it's proven true over the last month or so. We were more comfortable telling people earlier this time around, once we saw the beautiful beating heart. When it came time to schedule the second appointment, I opted for the 12-week mark rather than the offered 11-week mark, even though it meant a wait of five weeks between appointments rather than four. I mean, let's have the appointment when we're supposed to, right? I'll be fine for five weeks. Busy. Tired. Much too busy and tired to worry.

Right?

And here we are. Four and a half weeks later, and I am counting the hours 'til that appointment. 

It's true that it's always darkest before the dawn. That the wait for something is always hardest in the last moments before you get it. That your worry about something peaks in the hours and minutes before that thing should be yours. 

I want to feel her. I want to see her. I want to know that everything is fine, that she's happily tucked away inside her own little space bubble of safety, waving her little limbs and growing contentedly in her warm, dark world. 

(Yeah, I said it. Her. I think she's a she. And quite frankly I don't want to mess with the whole "his/her" thing right now.)

So here I sit. Four days before our appointment. Busy as ever. Tired as ever. But sinking into that old familiar worry all the same.

And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't really have it any other way. The life inside is too precious to be taken for granted, to be regarded complacently. 

My worry is my protectiveness. My worry is my desire. My worry is my love. 

And so begins another lifetime of worry about a child. What a terribly wonderful thing it is to be a mother.