Numbers.

Every Thursday marks off another week.  As if it takes me seven whole days to raise my foot to the level of the next tiny step on the ladder.  I find my fingers seeking out facts and numbers on the keyboard as if somehow these statitics can prove that a baby is growing within me.  David said it was strange.  Strange because I am the 'feeling' person, the instinctive, touchy, sensitive, artsy person and he is the numbers, charts and stats person in the relationship.  He said that he 'feels' that everything will turn out perfect, and I search for numbers to confirm it.  This is, indeed, strange.... Except....

My experience with conception has gone from passionate nights of emotional and physical intimacy with the man of my dreams to simply viewing my reproductive system as a labratory test tube.  It belongs to doctors who poke, prod, measure and calculate me constantly.  My days are measured by what doctor needs to examine me, which pills I will be inserting into which part of my body, or what dose of stinging medication I will be plunging into my abused belly fat.  My chances of motherhood do not lie in the dreams of a night of lovemaking, they are measured by dark burgundy blood that is drawn by sterilized needles in sterilized labs, by bruises and band-aids and phone calls. 

Passion is gently stowed away for weeks, months at a time so that my uterus is undisturbed and whatever is growing in there has complete territorial rights.  We fearfully respect those boundaries and settle for gentle kisses, cuddling and sinking deep into novels at night instead of each other. 

It's not so strange, after all, that I measure my pregnancy with numbers, considering how much emotion I have had to remove from it. 

I wonder what's happening deep inside me, in the most protected place possible.  Proof of life is aching, throbbing breasts and the constant bubble of nausea sitting somewhere between my stomach and my lips.  I allow myself brief moments of delicious imagination, when I have a moment to do so.  I picture myself with a growing belly, David witnessing his child coming to life a moment at a time for months and months, right before his eyes.  I imagine myself swollen with the weight and happiness of it all, finally able to browse possibilities of cribs, tiny boots, and life.  I avoid thoughts of the other possibilities... except to think... surely... the odds are with me, the numbers are in my favor at last.