When this issue first hits the stands (or, more accurately, the doctors’ offices and day care centers), I’ll be eight months pregnant. It’s amazing how quickly the whole process has gone. I feel like I went to bed one night, still able to sleep on my stomach, thinking about how much time we had to get everything ready, and woke up the next day with a growing belly, an armful of baby books and gear and my due date just around the corner. We haven’t bought any baby furniture yet, the nursery is still completely bare and our dogs are no more ready for the new addition than they were when I first got pregnant. I’m hoping all these things are taken care of by the time you read this, but I have a feeling that even if they are, I’ll have a whole new list to worry about.
Speaking of worrying, I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, too. I’m a worrier by nature, so it’s nothing unusual, but it’s amazing how different it is when you have a child to consider. I went through a rough patch early in my pregnancy that involved a trip to the ER, so for weeks until that first ultrasound I was terrified something had happened. Every time I pass by someone smoking a cigarette or inhale traffic fumes, I worry about what it might be doing to our growing baby boy. And now that time is running out, I worry about getting everything done and having the house ready for his arrival.
There have been a lot of times, though, when I’ve been able to put all the worries aside and just enjoy the moment, from the first ultrasound to the first kick to my first mommy birthday card courtesy of my very thoughtful husband. While I’ll likely plan the next issue of Chicago Baby during the last days of my pregnancy (I have to allow for maternity leave after all), I’ll be putting the final touches on as a working mom, just like many of you. Good luck to all the expectant mothers reading this issue and to those who already have their little one—I’ll be joining your ranks soon.