There is nothing quite like it—the cold squish of gel and then the roll of the probe, a deeply muffled thud or two of your own heart echoing, and then suddenly the earnest, unconscious jackrabbit sound of a heartbeat that isn’t your own but is still somewhere inside you.
It’s like a double shot of espresso. I can’t stop smiling.
Who is this little person? I’m so curious to see. I’ve felt the first kicks already, soft as the flick of a butterfly wing and just as surprising. The due date is in September, so we’re just coming out the first trimester misery—a season of sleepiness and up-chucking and what-the-heck-were-we-thinking. It passes.
Iris is fascinated by my belly, but mostly just because she loves the feel of skin, and an ever-increasing expanse of it is pretty thrilling stuff. She likes to pull my shirt up and lay her head against my belly, fall asleep at nap time with her hand pressed warm against it.
I hope they like each other.
18 months apart is sort of a daunting concept, I admit. We are not always sure we can imagine life with two pre-verbal goombas in diapers, and in my weeks of 24/7 nausea I did not always enjoy the sorts of comments one gets with closely spaced pairs. (“You do know where babies come from?” my step-MIL asked with her usual sensitivity, and our pediatrician—who has two different sets of 18 month-apart kids—told me that the first 15 years were hard, but after that it’s been great).
Yes, but if we waited we would not have this baby.
And I already can’t imagine life without this one.