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Seith, Party of Three

June 20, 2012

Again, that’s Seith,* party of three. That’s right. We’re having a baby! Now you can see from the Bonnaroo piece two weeks ago where I wrote about covering a music festival in the middle of Tennessee for four days just might put me in the crazy category. Well, what I didn’t say then is that interviewing rock stars and filing 20 stories in 96 hours where the only toilet option on site was a Porta-Potty was just about the last thing I thought I’d do while four-and-a-half months pregnant. Talk about exhausted, as you can see from this photo where I’m taking a breather backstage.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d handle this portion of the baby, the telling the world part, especially for those of you that live so far away. It seems a bit impersonal and showy at the same time. But, here goes. This little bundle in my belly has been a tough secret to keep. Those in Atlanta know (me being 5’2” in a wedge sandal and all) that I’m past the stage of, “Wow you look different and like you’ve really been enjoying having your face buried in a tray of donuts, but I’m not sure if you’re pregnant.” It’s pretty obvious at this point what’s going on underneath my shirt, but I forget there’s a whole world out there that doesn’t get to see this growing Buddha belly in action. So, now seems as good of a time as any to spill the beans, especially since I’m just over 20 weeks into creating a home for this little kangaroo.

We’re beyond thrilled (and nervous and scared and excited) for this bucking bronco to arrive. Right now, though, I’m dreaming of a massive hunk of camembert washed down with any-cocktail-will-do (I so miss alcohol) while wearing a pair of skinny jeans with no hint of taking an eye out when the button pops off from so much stomach force. My beloved pair is already at the bottom of my denim stack where they’ll remain until next year. I teared up a bit when I saw all the cute bright colors for jeans this season at J.Crew, and then it turned into a full cry when (obviously) none of them fit. And don’t even get me started on the swimsuit I had to purchase this year for summer vacation. Total mom suit with ruffles and everything. Gross.

But really, there were moments in my first trimester that I would’ve settled for an endless supply of Kashi frozen waffles. For more time than I care to admit I ate these at such a rapid rate I no longer used a fork. I’d just pick it up like an English muffin top it with fresh berries and stuff my face. Seriously, I’ve never eaten so many baked goods in my life. I’m predicting this kid will be a pastry chef. My husband came home from work one day wondering where an entire box of croissants from the farmers market ran off to. The dog and I just looked around, put our hands in our pockets (in my world, the dog has pockets for his paws to go in when they get cold) and whistled (and he can whistle) softly–we’ll never tell.

All kidding aside, most of the time, I’m just very grateful. Like bursting with so much appreciation to even get to go through this process. I’m so very grateful. To have something that’s part me and part my husband that I’m giving a home to is pretty extraordinary and overwhelming. I’m already madly in love and want to protect this little being with everything I’ve got. I am well aware that some people who want this don’t get it. And if I’m being totally honest, there was a period in my life I wasn’t entirely sure this would actually happen for us either; we’d been trying for quite some time.

When this year began, I consistently had a clear vision of me softly patting a teeny baby’s bottom come fall. I’m due November 5. We already know what we’re having, but there are some things we’ll be keeping private for now, and this is one of them. I do hope that’s okay. It’s such a special time and not everything needs to be public in this moment. Some things are that sacred.

I vow to not update my Facebook status or live tweet while in labor. And here’s hoping this is the last bump photo I’ll post for a while.

*My last name is pronounced as if you’re sighing. It’s not said like Keith with a ‘S,’ which is how most people butcher it. My child is clearly going to have to correct people for the rest of its life. Sigh.