When my husband and I found out I was pregnant, it took a little while for the reality of it all to set in. Sure, the pee sticks told me I was pregnant (yes… multiple sticks–I wanted to be sure), though I didn’t FEEL pregnant or LOOK pregnant. But I WAS pregnant. And the concept of there being a new roommate joining our home seemed forever away.
Week by week, Baby H (my married name is Heeren, my maiden and professional name is Glassberg; confusing, I know) grew from the size of a poppy seed to jicama to a honeydew. I was happy to give up alcohol, caffeine, sushi, soft cheeses, and my figure for this little avocado. Okay, let’s be honest…I wasn’t totally happy about it. There were days all I wanted to do was sit in my PJs drinking gallons upon gallons of Diet Coke to wash down a wheel of brie or two.
But I quickly learned that Baby H comes first. I was pretty nauseous for the duration of my first trimester, so I was excited to cruise through my second by seeing friends, taking a few trips, and getting things ready for the little grapefruit.
My placenta, however, had other plans. It decided to lie low, requiring me to lie low. I was on bed rest for six weeks. I had to forgo attending one of my closest friend’s weddings in New York, a trip to Chicago, and a planned babymoon to Hawaii. First world problems–I know. But, being sequestered to my bedroom, I took to talking to the ever-growing cauliflower in my belly and I knew everything was going to be OK. All right, again, I’m not being totally honest. I didn’t have a clue that everything was going to be OK. I was nervous. I was lonely. Frankly, I was terrified.
But, I was finally given the all clear by the doctor to go off bed rest as I entered my third trimester. Time seemed to fly by. Before I knew it, I was two weeks out from my due date, visiting my doctor who told me that I had at LEAST two weeks left. The next day I was headed to the dress rehearsal for a televised show I had written, “A Hollywood Christmas Celebration at the Grove,” the Los Angeles Christmas tree lighting…(yes, this Jew writes Christmas shows). I spent all day at the rehearsal, laughing at everyone joking that I was going to go into early labor and Santa would have to deliver my baby. I arrived home pretty late, and as I was dozing off watching SNL, my water broke. Guess the doc was wrong; the little pumpkin was ready to be born.
After 12 hours, it was time to push–an hour later, this beautiful being “arrived.” That phrase makes it sound like someone in either tails and a top hat or their finest evening gown knocks on the front door, bows or curtsies, at which point a man servant announces the arrival of the newest Lord or Lady of the land who is then invited to stay within your residence…forever.
It was not until my little girl curtsied (or screamed, covered in goop, as the case may be) her way into my life that the impact really hit me of how everything had changed forever. This was no avocado plant; this was a baby. MY baby. My Maya.
Although she is now only 10 months old, it feels like there was never a time before Maya. The journey from poppy seed to pumpkin was one I won’t soon forget. But the adventure from newborn to 10-month-old has been the strangest, hardest, and most rewarding of my life. And yes, I understand… it’s only been 10 months.
To watch this little mush of features and skin, turn into a little girl with a personality all her own has been truly awe-inspiring. I am so thankful for the opportunity to watch her learn to hold her head up (a talent I hope she never loses… in the literal and figurative senses), roll over, smile, laugh, point, crawl, pull herself up, say her first few words, hug and kiss. I hope I made a safe environment for her while she was “in”, and upon her arrival, I will continue to do my best to do the same for the lady of the house now that she’s “out.”