Extreme Dependence

I had been struggling with myself for weeks leading up to the deadline for this issue (and truth be told, it's nearly a week past deadline as I type this), but nothing was leading me to a good idea for a feature article. Finally, in desperation, I turned to www.dictionary.com to see if I might get a new take on "relativity."

I found that The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition (2000) gives a definition of relativity that immediately resonated with me: "[a] state of dependence in which the existence or significance of one entity is solely dependent on that of another." Not the definition that springs immediately to mind, but being as I am more than six months pregnant, one that I can readily identify with. [Cue sigh of relief. At last I have focus.]

The baby that I am expecting in early July is my third child, and I'll admit that I'm finding pregnancy a rather ho-hum affair this time around. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite happy about it--in fact, this is the only one of my pregnancies that was wholly intentional--and I am looking forward with barely-contained impatience to meeting our new son or daughter. It's just that it takes so danged long for the meeting day to arrive, and pregnancy itself has lost its magical newness for me.

Where in earlier pregnancies I reveled in the baby's being entirely dependent on me, as though I were carrying some magical secret that only I was privy to, this time I find myself wishing almost daily that I could transfer little Junior over to Dad for a little (or long) while. During my first pregnancy I marveled at the baby's every movement, sometimes lying awake for hours smiling at every kick, not even minding the occasional jab of a tiny fist to the bladder. This time, I've been feeling movement since I was scarcely more than two months into the pregnancy and by now the novelty has all but worn off. The baby's activity is reassuring, of course, but I have to say that it's exhausting in equal measure. There's not much charm these days in a foot lodged up high under my ribcage and three months before the little one has even begun life on the outside, I'm already imploring him or her regularly, "Please, just go to sleep and be still."

And it's not just the constant tossing and turning--mine and the baby's--that I could do without. I would love to be able to eat a big bowl of Wheaties and not pay for the privilege with endless hours of heartburn. I'd like it if each of my boobs hadn't expanded to a size larger than the average newborn's head. I could do without the increasing pressure on my diaphragm making it impossible to walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded. Oh yeah, and I wouldn't mind being able to tie my own shoelaces.

My one consolation throughout all of this (aside from the fact that I'll have a beautiful, bouncing baby boy or girl at the end, of course), is that all the trial and tribulation of pregnancy gives me an edge when it comes to choosing a name for the little miracle. And in the interest of holding on to that edge, I plan to keep on making sure that my husband knows just how much of a hardship it is that I've had to give up feta for nine whole months. His cleaning the litterbox doesn't even begin to make up for that.