Tag Archives: Chinese Cabbage

To the Chinese cabbage in my uterus, with love

Dear baby, welcome to the Big Third.

(trimester, that is.)

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Big in all senses, of course. I am now so huge I struggle to fit my beachball face into a photograph (see above), and you are shooting out like a firework. This week you are apparently the size of a Chinese cabbage. I don’t know what a Chinese cabbage is, but the only alternative I found was an aubergine, and I’ve never had one of those in my fridge either. Do you think that if I ate a whole aubergine in one sitting, I’d feel like I were having twins? Don’t answer that.

But isn’t it about time I addressed something to you directly? Because you are the quietest member of our household by far, and the jabs under the ribs you give me are quite often eclipsed by your brother trying to swallow his nail clippers. Now we’re in the home stretch of this pregnancy I feel like you deserve a little more than chocolate milk on tap (though I hope you like chocolate milk, given the circumstances).

You can respond to light and sound. You have fingernails and fat layers and unknowable dreams in the half-darkness. And suddenly I feel like I ought to be making more preparations. This morning it all got a bit much.

Sometimes I wonder what on earth we’re doing, making another person. Motherhood has laid me bare, made me more aware of my limitations than I ever was before. There is endless revolving worry while Henry sleeps at night, and happiness so acute it hurts too. I’m like that kid from Mean Girls who wants to bake a cake made out of rainbows and smiles, because she just has a lot of feelings. I have a lot of feelings, these days. And deep down – alright, not very deep down – I’m utterly terrified that I won’t have room for any more.

But I would like you to know something. Yesterday Henry and I were at the park. It was blazing hot, so we [he] ran wild on the grass before heading to the playground. It was the sort of day where I haven’t bothered to iron his shirt and he finds my every move hilarious.

I thought that a scene like that, with you there as well, would be something really fine. That’s true even on the days where I cry and cry because I haven’t bought you a crib yet and Timothy is in Amsterdam and how can I possibly continue getting bigger for another twelve weeks, I mean seriously.  I think you will be someone I’ll be grateful to know.

Please come, when you’re ready (not yet). We’ll save you a seat.

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