January 1
The wee hours between midnight and sun rise. Although we had gone to bed, I laid awake listening to your father breathing heavy and continually choking. I slide more pillows under his head to ease the loss of breath and lay silently, straining to hear The Pretty Little Dutch Girl creep silently upstairs to her bedroom, although usually she hits a stair that creeks, heralding her “better late than never” arrival. Obviously she broke curfew, again. Will we ever be able to have faith that she will meet commitments or am I just making too much of an itsy bitsy “because we said so” rule, which teenagers routinely thumb their nose at?
As we laid there, no sleep for the wicked, I felt a pity party descend upon us. “Why us?”, I asked the black night, our Guardian Angels, the Good Lord and all He commissions, “Aren’t pregnant ladies suppose to catch a break every now and then? I always knew believing in fairytales and happily ever would catch up with me someday – too bad it had to rain on your parade as well, Baby”. Finally, I hear The Pretty Little Dutch Girl stealthily open the front door, then the familiar creek of the stair – I am definitely not having that step fixed. Praise God. She is home. Now God, some sleep, please for Baby and me. Thank you. Amen.
New Year’s Day evening – although everyone laughs when I say it, I am starting to feel fat and bloaty or did I eat too much supper, ya think? My long hair has uncontrollable tangles – years later I will admit that there are two things in life I can’t control, Baby – you and my thick, unruly hair. And I got the pity party down to a fine pitch – I feel sorry for you, I feel sorry for me, I feel sorry for your Dad, The Pretty Little Dutch Girl and even her parents.
All the while, Baby you and me share this secret world. You will be the closest living thing to me ever… which means you feel my fears – share my pain and joy. I eel a blinding love for you. Sometimes I still can’t believe you are tucked in there somewhere so I rub my tummy, now starting to present a noticeable bump. I feel an uplifting, mindless joy but being the worrier I am, question – will I be a good mother – an adequate mother or heaven forbid… a bad mother? Does every pregnant woman question herself or are some born without eyes to see, ears to hear and minds to worry? I’m thinking, isn’t it a bit too late, at this point to worry?
January 3
Hold on tight, Baby. I am sneezing (like crazy horse, as Bruno (a General Manager at work later on in my life would claim – an old German saying), due to some allergy to mold or dust or only God knows and He is not telling. I fear you will come flying out of my nose or belly button, so batten down the hatches. Since a cousin of mine took allergy pills while pregnant and had a still birth, we are just going to weather the storm, you and me, ok?
I made delicious French Onion Soup, thick with cheese and garlic bread for supper but it did not agree with you or me. Live and learn, live and learn.
January 9
A week has passed but it seems like a month’s worth of stress. We are going through a bushel of tension at work since my friend Lee decided to hang up his keys and wander out in to the unknown. Of course the GM and AGM fell in love with this Princess Di look alike, meaning the rest of the office staff were dead meat. I was chastised for actually checking out her previous employment, (uh… am I not suppose to as the Human Resources Manager per my Job Description) wherein I was not given a very good reference. But over time someone new came along, her honeymoon ended and she gravitated towards ‘making nice’ with the rest of the staff, in order to make it through the work week. Been there, done that!
Your Grandma is on my back, insisting I do not eat enough to feed one, little own you and me. Bless her heart! Then there is your Dad to deal with. He has decided he doesn’t want to take insulin – you would think we were trying to get him hooked on heroin (Dr. Fred Banting is turning in his grave, at such foolishness). More worry for you and me to contend with, as we keep a stiff upper lip. Thank God we are brute strong and fearlessly tough.
If my frantic life will contribute to your personality, I expect a whipper-snapper (say what), a very smart boy! Uh, did I say boy? Now the secret is revealed between you and me. All along I have just had a feeling you were a boy – not that your sex is important to me – as a matter of fact, having had so many sisters, I know girls and their tricks, like the back of my hand. I am sure you will have lots to teach me. Anyway, it is just a feeling, you know.