It’s interesting to me how most of our pre-pregnancy life was counted in years.
Now, everything is weeks and months.
Sweetie just started Week 32 of her pregnancy, also known as her eighth month. We’re hoping to get to week 37 or 38, and the docs feel she might be able to get that far. (Which is pretty amazing for twins.)
And once they get here, it’ll be the same.
–“Oh, how darling! How old are they?”
–“Eight weeks tomorrow.”
–“Oh, they’re gorgeous! How old?”
(If you couldn’t tell, I’m pretty confident they’ll have the best of both of their parents’ features.)
Anyway, I couldn’t be more excited and terrified at the same time. I kid myself sometimes, thinking “OK, you can handle this. You’ll be up every two hours every night for a while, you’ll somehow drag your carcass to work after wiping off any excess baby substances, and be a kind, happy, supportive dad.”
And then I realize they’ll just scream in my face with tiny pink faces for hours on end, run fevers of 100.1 that send us into a panic, and basically not listen to any of our requests until, um, well, they’re 24 or so.
So yeah, I’m all over the place. I realize that it’s really never going to be about me again, and I’m cool with that.
This is a life-changing time for us, and although I’m quite satisfied with my life up to this point, I’m excited about the future.