Grunting. Groaning. Grimacing. Mom has been doing a whole lot of these things lately. “Don’t mock me,” she said tonight (when dad started teasing her about the proceeding grunt), “I’m growing a person here.”
Apparently that person is making basic things-like breathing-very challenging these days. And something has caused the ribs on her right side to be in a great deal of pain. Her doctor person has said this “popped rib” could be caused by a myriad of things relating to the pregnancy, including (but not limited to) the fact that baby Schmidt is currently sideways. My future little person is sideways and kicking on mom’s ribs from the inside.
It all sounds so awful. And it is painful to watch. Again dad and I stand by, longing to help somehow, but knowing there is nothing we can do. Until today. Today we were all reminded what is happening (albeit it uncomfortable right now) is a pretty spectacular miracle.
A banner told me so. “A Little Miracle,” it read. It was part of the decorations at grandma’s house for the baby shower, which I now know is different from the shower in the bathroom where my people clean themselves. (I was in quite the quandary the last time my people left to go to a shower).
But I’ve since learned my lesson. This is a different kind of shower. This is a type of showering of love on a person (or people) celebrating something special. This is a baby shower. And this time I even got to participate! It was very different than my last baby shower experience, when I relied only on the stories my people shared with each other afterward to understand the happenings of the day. This time I witnessed games and presents and (most importantly) joy. From the ground up, it was everywhere today.
It didn’t take long for me to realize today was about more than the bundle of joy. It was a celebration of the miracle of life. I know it hasn’t felt much like a miracle lately with all the grunting, groaning and grimacing going on. But it’s not about that. It’s about the miracle. The life. My mom is indeed eight months into growing a person. And from what I can tell as an observer it’s not an easy job. American author Norah Ephron went as far as to suggest “if pregnancy were a book they would cut the last two chapters.”
I may not be the one going through it (watching it is painful enough for me), but I can honestly say I can’t even consider cutting the last two chapters. Because it’s a miracle. It’s life. The end is the beginning. And I can’t wait for it to start.