Small Bump

Suspicions.
I continuously grasp at my fingers, and hum beneath my breath. Slightly agitated, filled with excitement and confusion. How did this happen, it can’t have happened. Could it? 

Week 7.

Confirmation.
My soft hum has moved onto a soothing song that draws slight glances. Everyone fades to grey as realisation dawns. I can’t do this alone. 

The signs.
In my frenzy I almost fall, but he is suddenly there to hold me up. I cannot avoid this truth that is deep within. Now even my body knows and I must listen but... does he know? 

Week 9. 

Confessions.
I must tell him, but how will he react? Will he continue to love me, or take it as too much. Maybe I shouldn’t even tell him, but I must, he deserves to know. Slightly trembling I sit him down with his large brown eyes watching me, curiously. Will it have those large brown orbs or my pale green eyes. I meet his quiet gaze and mutter out the truth. His calm resolve stumbles and I see  a flash of .. fear? He looks off into the distance, calculating. I hesitantly move his gaze back towards mine and watch, waiting. His shoulders suddenly relax and I feel the large strength of his arms around me. 

Acceptance.
He now knows and it has become real. I’m pregnant. 

Week 10. 

Reality.
Thump. Thump. The steady drum of a second heart beat within my body. A unique small one, but alive. I let myself smile as the reassuring pressure of his arms surround me. I lay my hand upon the small bump and breath contently. I am going to be a mother.

Week 15.

Disorientated. 
Where did I put the keys? I am craving, desperately. Distracted I trip, almost fall but he is suddenly there to hold me up once more. Be careful of the baby he whispers. 

Anxiety.
Does he even care about me anymore? It’s all about this thing in me. This small bump. I scream, I shout,  

“Don’t you love me anymore?” 

He takes all my frustration and holds me when the battle with myself dulls, continually being the constant in my life. I begin to wonder, will the child have the same temper as me, or his strength to calm an ocean after a grave storm. Will I be a good mother? I tremble and he holds me tightly, cooing me softly, knowingly, lovingly. I know he will be a good father. I hold onto him for my dear life glad I am not alone. I cannot do this alone. 

Week 16.

Check Up.
A perfectly healthy child, a sweet angel. He smiles brightly as it moves, and worms within my womb, so deep I am yet to feel its presence. I feel his firm grip tighten as he watches the screen. A boy or a girl? Do I want to know, he seems eager but with a slight shake of my head, I turn from his gaze. I am not ready to know.

Week 18.

Preparations. 
He paints the room a bright green. A colour for a boy or a girl. I smile softly at his solid determination. Cribs and new clothing come in. All for the baby, all for our child. 

Week 21.

Body Image.
I need to exercise. But the baby? The baby is fine. I run, until I’m sweating; it’s no fun if you don’t. I tell him what I’ve done. He doesn’t yell but watches me grimly. I stare back, pouting slightly like a child. I gasp softly as I double over. His arms are around me in an instant. The baby just kicked. 

Week 24.  

Prenatal Test.
I have diabetes, but it’s said to be temporary... temporary... I cry, I don’t want to die. He says I am over reacting. Am I? 

Admittance.
I’m just afraid.

Week 28. 

Birthing Classes.
We’re placed in the most awkward positions as preparation for the birth of our child. I grin throughout the whole class but my laughter is cut short as a woman’s water breaks. Her husband is no longer calm as he faints and she is left there frantically trying to breath. Will that happen to me? My husband watches me sincerely with strong eyes that make me guilty for doubting. He’ll be ready, but will I? 

 Week 34.

Sleep.
I feel like an insomniac, with my huge, round form. Soundly he sleeps next to me on the bed. I hope the baby will take after him, so quiet and peaceful. I kiss his sleeping form softly. He doesn’t even stir. 

His breathing just seems to relax. I lie back and feel him shift beside me. He wraps his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. I almost let out a small giggle as I realise he can’t really get his whole arm around my heavily swollen stomach. His touch causes something to stir within me as though the baby has become aware of his worth.

I close my eyes contently and settle, trying to sleep once more. 

Week 38.

Body Necessities. 
I rush towards the bathroom once more. Sleep may just have to wait.

Week 40.

Due Day.
My water just broke and the baby is coming, I can’t deny it any longer. I glance at my husband, frightened. He remains steady, not about to faint on me as I squeeze his hand tight. Softly, I breathe.

Push.

I breathe. Scream.

Push.

I exhale. Silence. 

Then, a soft cry. 

He brings me the baby and all I can do is weep. Beautiful.

My child takes a hold of my finger, its finger nails the size of a grain of rice, so precious. Its eyes don’t open. The crying stops as it stills. 

I scream. 

Chaos fills the room. 

My baby...

Once a small bump unknown.. 

Too soon torn from life..

Maybe you’re needed up there...

But I’m still unaware as why..

The biggest ache is not knowing and wishing it had been me instead.