A few weeks ago while lying all needled up on the acupuncture table, I tried doing some visualization exercises that were an utter failure. I was trying to imagine a new baby in our household and man, if the visions didn't completely fuck up the zen.
How would Niblet get on with a baby given the huge age gap? How would Princess get on in our household with an addition? How would we pay for childcare? How much time off could I get? Would Husband be able to take time off? Would she (I tend to imagine girls because of Celine) be healthy? Was I kidding my 41-year old self that I had the physical energy to do this? The power of visualizing your dreams took a dark turn into stressful alley.
My acupuncturist rightly noted that I was thinking way too big. Start small. Imagine growing a healthy baby in my belly. Maybe imagine delivering a healthy baby and holding it. But stop there.
I don't know if I've shared this before, but I get very emotional thinking about my pregnancy with Niblet, and not for the reasons that many people get emotional about pregnancy. Yes, I had morning sickness, but as far as my health, well, I never looked or felt better once I entered the second trimester. I look back with nostalgia at those days and regret not getting professional photos taken. Because I was as close to a pregnancy model as a 5 foot 1 chick could get. My bump was adorable and firmly in my middle. My ankles never swelled. In all honesty I looked amazing. When husband told me I looked hot pregnant, I could truly wrap my brain around it (well, except those last few weeks when I morphed into a beached whale). My cravings were all healthy - aside from plowing through carbo-rific giant servings of fettucine with marinara sauce - I mainlined peaches and nectarines and never developed gestational diabetes. I took long walks and weekly yoga classes. I gained a total of 30 pounds from start to finish.
I have been slightly, unhealthily obsessed with bump pictures lately on babycenter. I stalked a thread on one of my boards that showed survivors of loss proudly holding their bellies. Today I was watching PBFAW rubbing her belly in a staff meeting, and I had to stop myself from wistfully staring at her. She's about 18 weeks, and I would be roughly 17 weeks had I not recently miscarried.
We said goodbye to Celine just shy of 14 weeks. I was just beginning to develop a bump and even panicked that I was showing to the outside world.
Maybe a growing belly is my starting point when I attempt to visualize achieving what appears to be the impossible. Hell, taking care of a baby (!) is understandably a fear-inducing image for anyone in the best of circumstances. But trying to imagine my body doing something that it did once before, grow another Nibble, well, that seems in the realm of miraculous possibility.