In some ways I feel like my brain has stopped working since I got pregnant. I’m now just this incubator for the Little Jelly Bean I’m carrying. That’s my purpose in life. I feel like I’m sitting at a train station waiting for my train to arrive and life to start. My dream to have kids is coming true, and right now my entire life revolves around that. Everything. Eating is timed to keep the tummy happy, including 4 am fridge raids. Every little twinge is weighed and measured to ensure that its not Little JB telling me something is wrong.

I’m now 11 weeks pregnant, and it’s the longest I have ever carried a child. It’s an awesome thought for me. In two weeks I’ll be in my 2nd trimester, and ‘magically’ out of the ‘danger zone’ (although, the risk does drop exponentially over the first 12 weeks, so that by week 12 you’re down to about 5% risk of misscarriage). And for me, I won’t really feel like I’m safe until I hold Little JB in my arms.

I didn’t ever want to be one of those mothers who was obsessed with her pregnancy and her baby and bored everyone with talk of it. But I find it hard to think of anything else. Right now Little JB is my world. I cannot believe that I have been given this gift. I cannot take this time for granted, because this might be the only chance I get to enjoy being pregnant. And even though I am having a relatively easy pregnancy, I feel like that’s the pay off for being unable to conceive and carry a baby for so many years.

So, I’m sitting at the train station. Eating when and what Little JB tells me to. Sleeping when Little JB wills it. And engaging in various other activities determined by Little JB. Waiting for life to start. Waiting for the day that Little JB is in my arms and looking intently into my eyes.