Ray, as often as he can somehow drop it into a conversation, likes to remind me that I didn't cry when Lola was born. That he, not I, was a bumbling mess when they finally handed me our daughter.
I had no reaction. I might have had the tiniest smile.
Of course, I attribute this to the 30 hours of labor and three hours of pushing, but he doesn't care about that.
During our first pregnancy, I remember reading online about all these expectant mothers who bawled when they heard the heartbeat.
And then I would read about those who cried when they saw their babies on the ultrasound screen.
I didn't do that either.
In fact, the only time I remember crying while expecting Lola was after the 41-week doctor checkup when she told me it would be at least one more week before she would consider inducing me. (You'd cry too.)
When I finally heard that heartbeat (this time I actually recognized it!)...
I still didn't cry.
I smiled. But didn't tear up.
It wasn't until I left the office and drove toward work that I realized I really wasn't attached much to this pregnancy, didn't expect it to be real - or stick - this time. (Maybe that explains the too-frequent binges on Pepsi and Mountain Dew and the too-infrequent prenatal vitamins...).
Then I teared up. For just the split-est second.
And I got to work and poured myself some water. And took my Flintstone vitamins.
- Bethany :)