Only recently have I allowed my brain to begin processing what should be an obvious reality: that in about two months, I will have a baby. That starting on some particular day this fall, there will be a baby, my baby, in my life every day, all day, forever. Dude.
The endurance and durability test that is infertility fractured my perception of what preparing for parenthood is, to the point that I still have difficulty grasping the realness of what is happening in my ladyparts as we speak. That the kickpunching and twirling and swishing is a real live baby. For so long, I grew to believe that getting pregnant was impossible. It would not happen. Ever.
And now that it has, the possibility (ne, probability; okay, fine, eventuality) that a real live baby will emerge still seems...unlikely. Some days I play mind games with myself (the good news: I always win!) and pretend there's no baby, that I'm just incredibly and front-focally fat. Even as KB and I prep the nursery and finalize registries and send out baby shower invitations, I have a hard time truly comprehending that this is happening. We are well past the paranoia of things going catastrophically wrong. The few possible dangers that lurk for me or the baby are rare and not generally on my radar. I just don't trust the universe anymore, I guess.
I sort of loathe that people are treating me like a normal pregnant person, because I will never feel like I had a normal pregnancy. I didn't get here by the normal route. I had to take the long and winding road and there is not, and never was, a map. I suppose I just have to trust that we are about to arrive at our destination.