Emotions are a funny thing. It seems that no matter how logical we can be, when our emotions start running wild, there grows a major disconnect between our brains and our hearts. In the end, sometimes our brain wins and sometimes it doesn't.
When I found out I was pregnant with Sawyer, my brain was running in circles. The thoughts, the what-ifs, the how the hells, the holy shits were so abundant, I had no time to fall in love. I wasn't unhappy, but the shock certainly dulled what excitement I could muster. Also lurking in the not-so-deep recesses of my mind was the dread of what was going to happen to my body. Superficial, I know. Even as I told myself "you are only allowed to gain X number of pounds", I knew it was ridiculous. And yet, my brain was in control and my heart was in hiding.
But then there was the anatomy ultrasound. It was the big one. The one where most women find out the gender of their babies. We already knew we were having a boy. I was lucky enough to be of "advanced maternal age", which means they did genetic testing on my blood to rule out the major abnormalities that are more common in women aged 35 and up. He already had a name and some little blue onesies. The ultrasound was really just meant to measure his various bits and pieces, make sure everything is working as it should be and growing in line with his due date. It was exciting, but not in the same way it is when you're hoping to discover the baby's gender.
The ultrasound was pretty typical. We got profile shots and the little alien-looking thing that we saw in previous ultrasounds was now very distinctly human. He had features and fingers, toes, and a beating heart. We even got to see a little butt shot when he decided to moon our ultrasound tech for running her mouth about his lack of cooperation. I think that was the moment my brain shut off. The thoughts that had subdued my emotions for the previous 3+ months went up in smoke. This was my son and he was being silly.
Since that moment, it's been all emotion. Each movement brings with it the joy I had felt with my two previous pregnancies. Finally I was forgetting all the things that scared me about having another baby and I was experiencing the all encompassing warmth that comes with growing life within your body. It's magical, really.
Now when I hear Simple Man by Lynard Skynard or Beautiful Boy by John Lennon, I cry. I cry because I am only 18 short weeks away from meeting my son. And although it marks the official end of my reproductive years, it is the beginning of something amazing. My son. My boy. My little dude. He's on my mind constantly. I wonder what his sisters will think of him and how they'll all interact. I think of all the new things we'll get to see through his eyes. All the happiness and frustration we'll experience parenting our first boy. I wonder what he'll be like and who he'll resemble most.
My brain wasted 18 good weeks by bombarding me with worry and questions. But it only took a split second for my heart to jump in and wipe it all away. Sometimes our brain wins, but not this time.