15 weeks

Being pregnant again is weird, you guys. When I was growing George, it seemed like the seconds dragged between milestones. Getting blood drawn was exciting. Ultrasound appointments were made weeks in advance and I began reading books about labor and birth before the end of my first trimester. Unwarranted? Of course not; pregnancy is full of things to look forward to, the ultimate, of course, being meeting your kid. This time around, though, I'm a lot more...relaxed. Relaxed is a kinder term than lazy, right? I'm also a lot more tired, but I don't know that I can solely blame exhaustion for my willingness to lie in bed and watch Monk on Netflix instead of drafting a birth plan and revising my Amazon wishlist. 

There I am at 12 weeks. This time, we said, we'll take pictures! Every week! Cute ones! Har har har. Here I am at 15 weeks. Pacing the Panic Room we are not. 

I finally got around to visiting the lab on the last possible day before genetic screening was moot, and when my midwife called this afternoon to leave a message saying that everything was normal, I realized it had been a couple of weeks since I left four vials of blood with a chatty technician who seemed less than thrilled to've been roped into working on the sole sunny Saturday in our pathetic Northwest summer. Last time? I hounded the lab tech (who, in my defense, was also a friend), the very afternoon of my blood draw and, lab report print-out in hand, looked online for what each level could mean. We got an early ultrasound to learn the sex. I had a laughably unnecessary blow-by-blow birth plan.

This time, I'm sticking to the fun stuff. Teaching George the sign for 'baby', which he displays proudly with anything in reach -- baby burrito, baby water cup, baby soccer ball. Looking for names: scouring my brain for my favorite words and things and people. Buying tiny socks, for which we found ourselves at a mysterious loss with newborn George. Sewing diaper covers. I am, maybe naively, unworried about the potential overwhelm that keeps pregnant mothers of soon-to-be-two up at night. We have diapers, I have boobs, and the kid we've already got is pretty fucking rad. It's all starkly different than what I remember feeling as I prepared to have my first child. Creature of habit that I am, lover of knowing what to expect and hater of surprises, it makes sense that this time around will be more enjoyable. Not unexciting, but sort of like going on Space Mountain for the fiftieth time. Knowing what's around the next bend allows you to lean into it and put up your hands rather than getting thrown around your tiny space ship built for two.