As the week has worn on, Stephanie’s pregnancy symptoms have grown increasingly subtle. She’s still feeling queasy, but she hasn’t had to vomit in two days. For her, this is a good thing. For me, it ushers in another terrible “two-week wait”, so to speak. It may be two weeks, or it may be much longer, but, in any case, what I find myself waiting for now is that time when her belly begins to swell, when there is again a healthy supply of physical evidence that she is, indeed, pregnant.
Despite that doctor’s assurances that we essentially have nothing left to fear but fear itself, I find myself feeling the slightest bit nervous when Stephanie isn’t throwing up every day. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve been going through in past weeks, but it’s still there, this sense of foreboding doom.
I’m suddenly struck by this thought: I wonder if my child will sigh at me in the same way that my wife and my mother and my bestest friends do when I’m like this, or if the child will be a neurotic like me. I think, as much as I’d like a companion in my state of never-ending worry, I’d actually prefer a “sigher”. As in, “*sigh*, Dad you’re being an idiot.”
Oh, how I look forward to being called an idiot by my children. And don’t lie — I’m sure you’re all looking forward to it, too.