The final stretch, literally
"How special is it that someone’s life is going to depend on me so much?"
In her column, Baby Steps, Alexis Benveniste shares joyful—and honest!—reflections on each trimester.
I keep thinking about how every single person I’ve ever met arrived on this planet because someone gave birth to them, and somehow, that makes me feel a lot better.
Needless to say, the third trimester has been no joke. It seems that every stereotype and warning has proven to be true: I’m completely exhausted, beyond excited, sore in places I never imagined I’d be sore, and ready to meet this baby. (Of course, I want her to cook for as long as she needs to.) But reality is really hitting hard.
Admittedly, I’m nervous about labor, but I’ve also made a conscious decision to not fall down the research rabbit hole, and honestly, it’s been one of the better choices I’ve made during my pregnancy. I have friends who have read every birth book, watched every video, and memorized every intervention and its alternative. While I respect that approach, I know myself well enough to know it would just give me more things to be anxious about. I’m not going to out-Google a doctor, and I don’t want to walk into the delivery room armed with a spreadsheet of worst-case scenarios. I picked an OB I trust. I picked a hospital I trust. I’ve asked the questions I needed to ask.
Despite the chaos that comes with all of this, I’m starting to get excited about—and grapple with—what my new life is going to look like. It’s impossible to predict. As a first-time mom, I’ve never done this before, and the advice has been relentless. Everyone has an opinion about what I should be doing, eating, buying, reading. Some of it is useful. Most of it contradicts itself. I just smile and say thank you because I’ve realized people aren’t actually telling me what to do. They’re telling me what worked for them, or what they wish someone had told them. It’s sort of a love language. A clumsy one.
And while I saw my mom parent four times (I’m the oldest of five, and I still don’t know how she managed to juggle all of us), and I’ve seen women approach motherhood in TV shows and movies, I recognize that everyone has a different experience: Will I deal with postpartum depression? Will I be able to breastfeed? Will I ever sleep again? What will my new social life look like? How will I step back from work? When will I dive back into work again? As much as I can, I’ve come to peace with the fact that I don’t have answers to any of these questions.
I’m also coming to terms with the fact that welcoming a child into the world means undoubtedly growing up. Yes, I’m in my 30s and I haven’t technically been considered a kid for a while now, but there’s something about thinking about someone else’s childhood more than your own that really puts things into perspective. I also think seeing my parents as grandparents is going to be incredibly emotional. It’s hard to see how quickly time is passing, but it’s also a beautiful thing.
Preparing the nursery (all 90 square feet of it) has kept me sane and continues reminding me how exciting all of this is. I have a crib, a dresser that doubles as a changing table, a glider I’m already really obsessed with, and just enough space to play with baby girl on the floor. I keep rearranging things, folding clothes, debating whether the white noise machine belongs on the dresser or the windowsill. I know what this is: It’s the nesting everyone warned me about, and I love it.
Beyond the tangible details, my husband and I have been talking about who we’ll be on the other side of this. Not in a precious way—more like how you talk about a big trip or adventure you’re about to take, knowing you’ll come back different but not knowing how. We wonder what kind of parents we’ll be, understand what we aspire to, but are also fully aware that everything will change once the baby actually gets here. We’ve been together for more than eight years now, and I’m excited to figure all of this out together. As a team.
Still, I keep waiting for the moment where all of this starts to feel real, but I’m not sure it’s coming. Right now, it feels like I’m just going to be pregnant forever—like this is my new state of being. I think it might just keep feeling real in very small increments until she’s here. And then I imagine those increments will turn into a tidal wave, and I’ll wonder how I ever thought I had time to mentally prepare in the first place.
Last night, I was home alone—without my husband and my dog, which is rare—and I realized how little alone time I’m going to have as a mom. It didn’t make me sad, but it did make me think: How special is it that someone’s life is going to depend on me so much? How heavy is it that the concept of being alone is going to feel so far away for a long time?
But at a certain point, you have to let the people whose entire job is bringing babies into the world show up accordingly. When the day comes, I want to walk in and listen to the people taking care of me. There’s something almost radical about that right now: choosing not to know everything, choosing to trust. It feels like the first real act of motherhood, actually. Letting go of the illusion that I can control this. And now, it’s go time. Let’s do this.
“It’s hard to see how quickly time is passing, but it’s also a beautiful thing.”
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I feel like she’s already learned the biggest lesson of motherhood, we can’t control any of it 🤍