Disappearing View of Mommy

As the bump grows, the view up to mommy is disappearing. Here's to the final days of having a bowling ball attached to my front!

Mommy Finger

I’ve got a “mommy finger.” Let’s just think of it as a mommy version of carpel tunnel.

Here’s the deal: my left index finger is often sore. It bothers me when I type or chop vegetables or hold up baby feet when changing a nappy.

But none of those actions are the cause. I just realized the other day exactly what is: I have spent 3.5 years with chubby baby fingers holding on to my index finger, tugging it while learning to pull up into a sitting position, jerking it when trying to walk but taking another tumble instead, and yanking it when getting excited and wanting to run with me to experience a new adventure.


It’s one of the bodily pains I’ve consistently experienced in recent years that I actually enjoy, because it signifies the littleness, the closeness, the dependence of my tiny guys.

All too soon that need for mommy’s finger will go away – the boys will grow up before I know it, and while I’m hoping there will forever be plenty of hugs, kisses, and hand holding, the tugs on my single index finger will become increasingly less frequent.

And there is just something fabulous in that gesture that characterizes the sweetness of this season of life – being the mommy to little ones.

What I’ll Miss (Sorta?) About Being Pregnant

As I approach the end of my final pregnancy, I find myself (besides completely exhausted and antsy) thinking about the things I’ll miss about carrying around a baby in my belly. Among the obvious like the squirms and kicks and congratulatory smiles from grandmas and the excuse to eat obnoxiously large quantities of food and the equally wonderful explanation for not having a flat model-quality tummy, are the very fascinating conversations you strike up with complete strangers. And not only that, but the dramatic details they reveal about their own personal experiences and family lives.

I remember this happening from the early days of my first pregnancy. I’d be on the bus or Tube – in London, mind you, where you tend to find that people are tight-lipped and much less inclined to share anything, let alone personal information – and have one of these random chats.

Stranger: “Oh, is this your first baby?”
Me: “Yes, it is!”
Stranger: “Is it a boy or girl?”
Me: “Boy!”
Stranger: “Ooooh! Boys are wonderful. I had one boy and one girl. The pregnancy with my son was easier but the delivery! Oh my! He was so big I couldn’t push him out. The doctor had to use every tool imaginable. First…” [ok you don’t want to hear it all. Neither did I. For that matter, neither did those in the seats around us. But suddenly, it was – because I happened to be pregnant – fair game to share these grossly intimate details.]

Often the chats aren’t so horrifying, but simply tend to reveal incredibly personal information that you wouldn’t normally divulge within the first 30 seconds of small chat with a complete stranger.

Just a few nights ago, an early 20-something guy at the bookstore check-out counter started this exchange:

Dude: “Boy or girl?”
Me: “A boy!”
Dude: “First one?”
Me: “Nope, fourth. Fourth boy.”
Dude: “Wow, that’s wild. At least they all boys. I have a sister, and man is she completely whacked. In high school, I’d just want to chill, go fishing, canoe, you know, check out the alligators and otters, just hang out with my friends and be mellow. Her? She was all into drama. She got into so much trouble. Drugs, guys, experimenting with stuff. There was this one time when…” [and here, once again, you don’t need or want to know all the intimate details of why this youngster thought his sister was “whacked” but he went off for about 3 minutes describing his view of how dysfunctional girls are.]

Unpredictable and random conversations... absolutely amazing!