Yes, there it is. I said it. Not on Facebook or on Twitter. But here, on my beloved Rockmommy blog I don’t spend enough time with — I am 30 weeks pregnant with a girl or a boy. A baby. They said I couldn’t even have one. Boy, were they wrong!
While I’m excited — after all, I did want two kids … eventually! — I am scared as shit. I had my life all perfect: Writing, teaching guitar, enjoying being a hot, MILF-y mom. Going to shows. Traveling. Spending time with my little dude. And then it happened, again.
Zack’s first Father’s Day.
We enjoyed a nice lunch at Flipside, our favorite burger joint in Fairfield, just the three of us. And I noticed at the playground an hour later that I was feeling unusually nauseated after my “normal” burger salad lunch. So I asked Zack to watch dude so I could “go to the bathroom.” That’s when I took the test. Seconds later, it’s “honey, I’m pregnant again.”
The rest of the day was a hazy shock. Not one of relaxation, which hubs undoubtedly had hoped for.
And now here we are. After whittling down to a Size 2 (yes, I am still guilty of vanity, that hasn’t changed), I am now as big as a house again, uncomfortable and getting up a zillion times to pee.
This time, it is so much harder!
Little dude wants to be held and carried and loved — how is he going to react when I have to share my love with another? I plan to go back to teaching guitar in late March — will my amazing mother in law need me to hire an assistant? How am I going to handle four loads of laundry a week, twice as many bottles/sippy cups, and less money to spend on myself for the little things that make me happy?
I’m grateful, indeed. But still freaking out.