This weekend, I curled up with my kids on the couch with an old favorite book of mine. It’s one I’ve been meaning to read to my four-year-old, especially since he has shown some astute interest in both (a) how I pee and (b) how this baby is going to come out.
My answer to both has been a bit blunt and simple: I have a hole in my butt. I leave it at that. He has an answer, and I’m glad to have set him straight that (a) I am not going to explode and (b) I will not puke the baby out. (I think those are both worse options. Much worse. Much, much, MUCH worse.)
He ponders, and he watches, and he pokes my belly and giggles. (He doesn’t believe me, I don’t think.)
On the couch, my girls smiled knowingly, because the book we were reading together is one they love. My boy was restless, as he always is at the beginning of anything that involves sitting and cuddling.
But as we read through Angel in the Waters, he started asking questions. He’s a tactile little guy, and the umbilical cord and the world within me are fascinating to him, nonetheless when I explained that he had once been that baby.
29 weeks into my 4th pregnancy, and I discover new life.
I’m not a quick learner. (Not shocking for anyone who knows me.)