Growing the Pirate King

I am now five and a half months pregnant with Mr. Taco John, Pirate King. I look like this. (Except usually I try to keep my eyes open. It was sunny. I am not built for the beach.)

Already this poor second child is getting the short end of the stick, as second children often do. With Lucy, the minute I found out I was pregnant, the whole world pretty much knew it. I wrote hundreds of words detailing each and every twinge, every pain and every joy during the 9 (10) months I grew her. We’re already over halfway through this gestation, and I think I’ve written about it three times total. Poor little Pirate King.

It’s different this time. Everything is different, and the differences are so unique and new to me, it’s like this pregnancy is a whole new world. The most obvious being how overjoyed I am to even BE pregnant. My first pregnancy was met with fear and isolation, this one was met with happiness and congratulations. People smile when they see me lumbering toward them, and I smile back. Not one person has responded to the pregnancy news with “Oh no, what are you going to do?” I can’t describe what a difference that is.

(Note: Before anyone even goes there, of course Lucy was wanted. Of course she was loved and eventually there was mostly extreme joy concerning my pregnancy with her and her subsequent arrival. But having an unexpected pregnancy when you’re unmarried and 22 years old is frightening. And save two people, every single person we told in the first months of that pregnancy expressed concern about how we were going to do this. Be parents. I’m happy to have proved them wrong, but that doesn’t change the fact that the pregnancy itself was scary.)

When we went in for our 20 week sonogram, we were honestly just excited to find out everything was okay. This pregnancy (aside from the stuff mentioned above) was a bit rocky in the beginning, and there was a time early on when were weren’t sure if we were even going to carry this baby past the first trimester, so seeing our little dude swimming around in there was a huge relief. Taking in the visual of his little hands and feet and profile, which looks remarkably like his sister’s, was enough for me. But then the ultrasound tech hovered over an area of the screen, pointed and looked at me. “It’s a boy, right?” I said. “Yes, are you excited?” she replied. I just looked at Trent and smiled. He hadn’t really heard us, and was a bit confused for a second, but then it set in for him as well.

A boy.

A son.

A brother.

Before I found out that Lucy was a girl, we were sure she was going to be a boy. I am not that girly, Trent is obviously hairy and full of testosterone and I just couldn’t imagine a girl in there. Girls hate their moms. Girls are moody. Girls like princesses. Girls, girls, girls. So it had to be a boy. Boys love their moms. Boys are simpler. Boys, boys, boys.

But now, after four years of parenting my precious little girl, I’m back to square one. I know how to parent a girl. I know the parts and the pieces and how to make sure a dress twirls correctly. I have a mini-me who idolizes everything from my wardrobe to my makeup drawer. I am a girl’s mom.

And now, I will be a boy’s mom. It will be different.

I can’t freaking wait.