The first time I was pregnant, I loved it. Even though we
were living in Rome in 95 degree heat with no air conditioner. Even though I
had a headache every day. Even though Italians don’t seem to believe in
maternity clothes. I loved the way my body expanded. I loved looking, feeling,
being pregnant.

Third time around, I complain about my expanding midsection
and the cost and bother of finding maternity clothes. I think things like, “I
can’t believe I’m going to give my body to another human being again.” I wonder
if I’ll ever fit into my old jeans. I’m a short woman, so I get a lot of
comments about my size during pregnancy. “You look huge!” “Are you sure you
aren’t having twins?” “You can’t only be four months!” and so on. This time
around, since I know the comments are coming, I dread them.

Which left me complaining to a friend about my current state
of being.

And then, a few inches below my bellybutton, thump, thump,
thump. Once a day. Twice a day. Three times a day. Hello, little one. I will stop complaining now. I am glad you are here.
And it is an honor to carry you into this world.