No, this is not my new age...though I must admit besides the painful relationships and crappy jobs, 25.5 wasn't a bad age to be. 25.5: weeks into pregnancy; 34: new age. The birthday was wonderful: a long walk on the beach with my love, sea air, fried shrimp, sunflowers in Mason jars, two slices of lemon cake with fresh blueberry sauce, and then, poof, another year older.
Over the past two days, I have become number and size obsessed. My mind is a third grade math class. If Nicole's uterus is the size of a soccer ball and will only grow larger, how big will it be in seven weeks? Fourteen weeks? After another slice of cake?
It is, it seems, all relative. Yesterday, traveling home, I complained for the first several hours how LARGE I was feeling, and then suddenly it struck me how small the baby will be.
What if we crush it? How will we take care of something so tiny? Why do I need to get so BIG to birth something so small? If the baby weighs 1.5 pounds (about the size of a rutabaga) and the woman has gained XX pounds, what accounts for all the other rutabagas? (Hint: the answer is not rutabaga.)
Now, I will move on to other numbers. School starts in eight (8!) days. C. has been smoke-free for seven (7!) weeks. If the room is very quiet I can feel the second (2!) heart beating in my body. I have just polished off a (1!) delicious peach. I may soon have another.