I feel like I’ve been pregnant forever, but at the same time, I’m amazed this pregnancy is almost over. Nine months of planning and worrying. Nine months of growing and becoming attached to my son. Nine months of prepping my daughter for a baby brother, and prepping myself for a crazier life, but in the best, happiest way.
At this point, there’s not that much more to say. We’ve talked about it all. Well, there’s one thing I haven’t mentioned. I have a regret about this pregnancy. One huge glaring regret. About a year ago, I wrote a letter to Addy about my wish for her to be brave, concluding it with this bit of priceless wisdom: Be brave enough to be a woman with really big cajones, cause you’ll learn they’re an invaluable asset. Yup, even more than your boobs.
That post remains one of my favorites, probably because it’s still addressed to me just as much as it to Addy. But that’s not the point I’m making. My regret is my point, and it is this. I am pregnant with a boy. And I only just connected what that means. For the only time in my life, I literally have a pair of cajones. Granted, they’re just baby-size right now, but do you know how many times I could’ve used that excuse to make up for poor behavior and a bitchy attitude? “It’s the balls. The only reason I called you a jackass and then flipped you the bird is cause I have nuts right now. I’ll be back to my usual pleasant self in nine months, when I’m castrated via giving birth.”
I’m so disappointed in myself.
- The evolution of daycare
- And then The Boy arrived