sitting on a dock

(photo credit: Lydz Bmow via Flickr)

When I found out I was pregnant with my first son, I was in complete shock. After bursting into the bedroom early in the morning and after waving the pee-soaked pregnancy test stick at my husband, I called my mom to tell her what was going on. She was excited, I could hear it in her voice. I asked her what I was supposed to do and she said, “take care of yourself, and now you just wait”.

I’m back to the waiting game of pregnancy. Only this time I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I don’t know what I’m waiting for and it’s really hard not knowing.

Not knowing what’s in store is the complete opposite of my comfort zone. Most days I’m able to push past the anxiety of not knowing and embrace what is known in the moment. I take a deep breath, and remind myself that what I do know that is that the baby is doing well and we’re okay right now.

But then there are other days when the mystery of the unknown is overwhelming and I can’t help but wonder what I’m waiting for.

At my next doctor appointment, will I wait those grueling moments when the doctor is trying to pick up the baby’s heartbeat with the doppler, and then be told that my baby has died?

When it’s finally time for the 20 week ultrasound, will the doctor find something wrong with the baby; am I waiting for a heart-wrenching diagnosis?

Am I waiting to have my heart broken all over again?

Am I waiting for something that’s never going to happen?

Or…

Maybe I’m waiting until the little peanut is big enough to be able to determine if it’s a he or a she, and we can pick a name.

Maybe I’m waiting to get to the end of the pregnancy when the real waiting game begins; waiting for labor to start, brining the anticipation of the baby’s arrival.

Maybe I’m waiting to hold my baby.

I really, really hope and pray that I’m waiting for the second scenario.

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