Today, I am twenty-seven weeks pregnant. I'm into the third trimester. Assuming it's not premature, we have ten to fifteen weeks to wait until we meet our baby.
It doesn't seem long at all.
And we're excited. So very excited. We look at the tiny clothes stacked up in the second bedroom and we giggle thinking that somebody will soon be wearing them.
For weeks, the pregnancy guides have been telling us to talk to the bump and we've laughed and felt too ridiculous. Now, there are steady, heavy kicks making my stomach lurch all over the place and it feels natural to tell the baby I feel it. The more we talk, the more it kicks. Steve is playing it music.
The end (or the start) is in sight and that's thrilling.
It's also a little bit daunting. I've had moments of feeling hugely vulnerable - not because I doubt our abilities as parents (I don't - we'll figure this out) but because this is a huge change in how I define myself.
While Steve will be continuing on with his normal life - his full-time job and his far-too-long commute - and trying to cram this extra layer of identity in on top of that ("Steve, who works in IT and is somebody's dad"), my normal life will be put on hold for the duration of my maternity leave; I'll be shifting from thinking of myself in terms of my career ("Sarah, who works in PR") to thinking of myself in terms of my family ("Sarah, somebody's mum").
Eventually, I'll need to figure out how to combine those two elements of my identity. But that's a concern for the future. It can wait.
For now, for the next ten to fifteen weeks, I'm in a limbo land between the two states.
Yesterday, my GP signed me off for the remainder of my pregnancy. After plateauing for a while, my hips have started to get worse again - I'm alternating a couple of hours of sitting upright with an hour of lying down; on bad days, I need my support belt just to get to the kitchen.
So, I'm not somebody's mum yet. But I'm coming to terms with the career part of me having already been put on hold.
It's not quite what I had in mind. I had hoped to work from home for a while (and I feel intensely paranoid every time I post on my blog - I feel like every post needs a little disclaimer explaining how many separate ten minute sessions it took me to draft it* and how incapable I am of sitting at a desk and how I'm honestly not skiving) but my GP was quite clear that there is nothing further they can do to help me; my hips are going to get worse and all I can do is try to minimise the severity by doing my exercises and taking things very, very easy.
And, on the bright side, the pain is likely to clear up the moment the baby is born.
Ten to fifteen weeks, people. Ten to fifteen weeks.
It's really not long at all.
*This post took me thirteen minutes on my teeny, tiny Chromebook and my hips are already complaining.
Hi! I'm a 30-something stay-at-home feminist mother-of-one. I live in Aberdeen, Scotland with my toddler, boyfriend and two black cats.