I've been very anxious to hear a heartbeat. It was an issue last time since we tried to get a heartbeat when I suspected something was wrong at 12 weeks and of course, there wasn't one.
But today, two years and 8 months later, I finally heard what I've wanted to hear.
150 strong and beautiful beats per minute.
I have not been worrying, or anxious or even all that "careful". (Yes, that's right-- if I want to have a half a beer with my supper occasionally-- I do. Women have been drinking alcoholic drinks in moderation during pregnancy for millenia. It's only us paranoid Americans who are so worried about everything.) In fact, I've had a pretty good feeling about this pregnancy the whole time, if you don't count a few minor hormonal freakouts. But some part of me was not making plans. Somewhere, it just wasn't real yet. Somehow, I couldn't get beyond the abstract. Not that any of that would make it any easier if something happened, and it's not like there's no possibility of tragedy now. There always is, in everything in life. But since I experienced a particular trauma and a particular time, I'm more aware of that particular possibility.
But now... it's real. There's a baby in there. A real baby with an actual beating heart.
All of a sudden, I can think more concretely. I can make plans. I can imagine myself with a sweet new baby this summer. I can picture where the crib will go and I can look at cute cloth diapers and I can think about... names. Names! We can discuss Nathan's bizarre suggestions for names that he always comes up with to try to get a rise out of me. We can actually pick out some real names, too. I usually start all that right when I see those two pink lines, but this time I hesitated and had to take a little more time. Which is okay, really. Now I can let my mind go there.
'Cause there's a baby.
God is good.