Pregnancy math is tricky. First there are the 40 weeks that supposedly equal 9 months. Then there's the tablespoon of water you drink that will produce about a gallon or so of pee. There's the 35 lbs you gain somehow by subsisting on dry crackers and Tums for a couple of trimesters. And don't even get me started on the 60 tablets of Zofran that your doctor prescribes to you that your insurance company consistently decides to fill as 12.
It's all very mysterious to me.
But nothing is more perplexing than the fact that there is currently a 12 inch, 1 pound, baby-looking baby just ballet dancing in my belly, and in 4 months or so she will be here in this room, and I'll be able to count each one of the little toes that have been tickling me.
I'm presuming there will be 10 of them, but I've got something like 17 weeks and 1 day until I find out.
Is that a lot or a little? I seriously can't even tell anymore.
To pass the long days and short weeks I've been doing proactive things like visiting the birth center, half-finishing knitting projects, and falling in love with and then rejecting endless baby names. I've even gone to have two sessions of acupuncture, mostly so I could say with complete honestly that I have "tried everything" when it comes to my unending morning sickness. So far it has produced zero results, and I'm dubious that it's due to what the puncturer calls my "rebellious Qi" or just the fact that acupuncture is sort of like Tinkerbell, ie only real if you believe.
Which is sort of what impending motherhood feels like.