I am six days late.
All day long, while I rush around from meeting to meeting, shuttle my daughter to preschool, wait for my mother at her doctor’s appointment, make dinner with my husband, this is all I can think about. I am six days late.
I have no idea what this means. All of the tests are negative. I have been hyperaware of changes in my body for so long that I no longer trust any of my own instincts.
Last month I was so sure. Everything smelled terrible. Coffee lost its allure. I collapsed into bed every night by 8:30, exhausted in a way that I just *knew* could only be that first trimester haze descending on me. I caught a glimpse of my breasts in the mirror after showering one night and literally laughed out loud at their swollen, discolored, bumpy nipples. This is me pregnant, I thought, smiling fondly at my reflection as I remembered what this felt like last time, the idiosyncrasies of a pregnant body, the strength and power I felt as my belly grew.