Second bests

The last time I was pregnant, it was sublime. Despite the morning sickness and the expansion of all of me, I reveled in it. I loved the miracle of it all, the excuse to eat anything, the total ignorance and blind anticipation of what was to come. I felt as if pregnancy had annointed me with some sort of special gift, one that I sported proudly. I bought pregnancy clothes the moment the second line appeared, opting for bright colors instead of my standard black. I consumed all things organic and every piece of literature written about pregnancy. I never studied so hard for any final -- hoisting myself into awkward positions on the windowsill of Barnes and Noble, gobbling up "What to Expect When You're Expecting" along with my obstetrically-sanctioned snack.

This time, it's all different. I look pretty much the same, but I feel huge. And I have the physical woes of a huge person - my legs ache and itch, I can't breathe through my nose, my back aches. I never drink enough water, and have subsisted on a steady stream of Sunkist and Starburst. I know too much - and worry incessantly - about how we are going to handle everything and the infinite "what ifs". I already have a baby at home, who I am obsessed with in a manner that makes me wonder if love really is limitless, or if I have used up my stash and this next baby will be left with the dregs. I fear the unknown instead of reveling in it - and wonder if we were too arrogant in spinning this wheel of chance again.

And then there's the guilt. Does the new baby, floating around in a fluid filled with my poor food choices, feel less loved already? Does he wish he came first, when I had the time and energy to do things like walk on the treadmill, read baby name books and count down the days? Is he destined for a life of second bests? His toys will have been prechewed. Is there such a thing as hand me down love?