The Christmas season is upon us, and the glorious break from work draws near.
I wash my hands excessively, trying unsuccessfully to fend off the colds and flus and booger jambalayas of Kindergarten.
Straighten dresses, fix hairbands, wipe faces. Line kids up to sing for their parents. Or at the very least, stand there and wave as their classmates stumble over the words to this years jazzy Christmas tune.
I haven’t made ‘the announcement’. I am not close to most of my coworkers, and I don’t want to be mooned over, hands on my belly, ladies cooing and aw-ing. I haven’t told the staff, save for a few close workers, that I am pregnant.
Tomorrow, I am 19 weeks.
I think they’re catching on. My belly protrudes, though I’ve never been small, maybe there are a few who are chalking it up to Christmas snacking. I’ve taken to wearing maternity pants, with the glorious stretchy band at the waist.
At this point, if I were asked, I’d tell the truth, but I just can’t bring myself to declare ‘PREGNANCY’ to the world. My family knows, close friends know (excluding one or two I just can’t seem to schedule time with), the important people in my life know.
I am in a phase of pregnancy I didn’t reach the first time. I made it to 17 weeks, though my child was gone long before that. I didn’t gain weight, I didn’t need bigger clothes, I didn’t get heartburn, I didn’t get noticed.
But now, my belly has popped. I’ve experienced that atrocious, hateful, murderous heartburn I’ve heard tell of. I’ve felt movement.
The sensation that my body contains a goldfish.
It makes me reflect on my past, and where I am now. It makes me pensive, it makes me focus. It makes me worry when I don’t feel it for a while.
But mostly, it makes me smile. It makes me feel safe, and while I won’t declare myself ‘home free’, ‘out of the woods’, past some mysterious point of loss, my heart eases just a little each time.
And I think, happily, in the spirit of the season, a creature is stirring.