“I am not good at being pregnant,” you said, with a wan smile.
And you said, “my hips hurt, and there's a pinching here” – indicating either side of the sacrum. “But I don't know if there's anything you can do about it...” the brave patient face suddenly collapsed, and a dangerous woman with dark eyes abruptly said, “God, don't fix anything!”
I grinned. “I won't, I promise. No fixing.”
My hands on the small knotted belly, seething with the newcomer, the messenger, the bringer of morning sickness. Sheets of flame: an effulgence of new life.
Everything's in order: everything is fabulous, in fact. The overall impression of vigor and good health is unmistakeable. So is the worry, and the stress, and the fatigue, and the lingering effects of recurrent nausea. It's often this way: a strange double-exposure effect. It's not my place to say, “not to worry, it only gets stranger.”
It's also not my place to say, “My dear, you are magnificent at being pregnant.”
But. You know? You're magnificent at being pregnant.