The first one was the normal one. After the 12 canonical weeks I announced the pregnancy to family and friends showing off the picture of the dating scan. I've been fine, energetic, fit the whole pregnancy. I kept working and exercising. I didn't eat sushi and ham and took care to wash the bloody salad properly. I couldn't see myself as a mother, I was not prepared to have a son as any normal first time mum-to-be and I never bonded with the little thing growing inside me until much later.
Then the bump became Jacopo and Jacopo became an angel today three years ago. This was the 'end' of the story. I suddenly became an angel mum with an empty womb and an empty Moses basket with no other thought in mind than getting pregnant again.
The second one was the most desired and the most feared one. I stared at the pregnancy test with excitement and fear and I started to talk to the belly which was a bump just two months earlier that very evening. I never announced the pregnancy: people around me figured out in their own time, people far away never knew. I learned how to handle panic attacks, I survived the number of scans I had, I was tired and sad and scared and angry most of the time. I did eat sushi and ham and could not care less to wash the bloody salad because if Jacopo had died for no reason the bloody salad could go and get lost. I fed myself out of instant noodles, tuna, sweet corn and multivitamin pills to counterbalance the awful diet I was on. I hated my growing body as never before, and my body paid me back with pain everywhere. But I loved and talked to Bianca a lot. I talked to her since the very first moments I knew she was there and month after month she learnt how to answer, to reassure me, to make me feel safe and good. I spent the first 6 months in tears and the last two months holding my breath. Then Bianca arrived into the word safe and sound and life started to be good again. I enjoyed (and am still enjoying) every single second of motherhood as a gift that I still cannot give for granted. And the first pair of pre-bumps jeans that fit back empowered me as I started to feel a woman again.
The third bump is not a bump yet, it's just a little line on a peestick. It's the desired and yet not so desired one, it's the one that tempts faith, it's the one that 'we'll see', it's the one 'I HATE being pregnant. Why did I put myself in here again?'. Because I still want my three living kids, regardless of my age and my history.
I could wait to publish this post a bit longer, so to rule out things like ectopic pregnancy, early miscarriages and shit like that, but I'm dead sick to hold my breath that my pink line on the peestick is enough for me to celebrate with whoever still bothers to read me. So here I am, expecting my 3rd child, due in May. Watch this space!