The Wonder Of It All Part 2

This journal is the second half of the Womb's emotional journey. Look out because it gets messy.

PART TWO OF A 2 PART SERIES

*****

May 4

She laughed when he kicked tonight — really laughed — like the kind she used to make when she ran barefoot through sprinklers.

And when she touched me, it wasn't wondering. It was welcoming.

We're still scared. But I think that's okay.

She chose him. She chose us.

And maybe, just maybe — she chose herself, too.

May 12

It's a good thing I'm kind of attached to this baby growing inside me, because today he — and yes, I did say he — did the most disgusting thing ever.

He's got this thing that looks like a wand, and he can shoot water out of it like a fountain. Everywhere.

All over my walls, the floor — you name it, he hit it.

I need a mop crew just to maintain some dignity in here.

May 31

I take it back.

This is no longer a beautiful miracle.

This is an invasion.

He has completely taken over.

There's barely any space left. I used to have walls — now I have knees in my ceiling and elbows in my corners.

 I am constantly wet. Not from her. From him.

I am basically a warm balloon filled with baby broth.

Amniotic fluid. (Brain told me that's a big word for pee and water). It's everywhere. All the time.

Sloshing. Floating. Swirling.

It's like living in a waterbed that kicks back.

And don't even get me started on the bladder.

She's been squeezed to the size of a grape and complains nonstop.

"This again?" she mutters every hour. One glass of lemonade, and she floods the gates like it's a five-alarm emergency.

And me? It feels like the landlord put one of those girdle things on me, and it's two sizes too small.

But something's coming. I can feel it.

The pressure is building.

The walls are tightening.

And the water — well, let's just say this dam is not going to hold much longer.

June 9

We went to the grocery store today. Apparently, once there's a bump, everyone thinks the landlord is public property.

At least five strangers reached out and rubbed her belly as if it were a good luck charm.

No one asked.

Even I, the womb, felt mortified!

Bladder and I have decided to start a petition: "Respect the Perimeter."

June 23

She cleaned the entire house today.

Twice.

Closets. Floors. Cupboards. Even the sock drawer.

I asked Brain if there was a fire. Brain said no — it's something called nesting.

She's acting like royalty's about to visit.

July 3

Last night, we thought it was go time.

Contractions hit like stage lights. Curtain up, all organs on alert.

My stomach screamed, "This is it!"

Bladder fainted.

Even Heart skipped a beat.

And then — nothing.

Just a practice run — a false alarm to see if we are ready. Ready for what?

They call them Braxton Hicks.

I call them emotional sabotage.

July 18  

The landlord said a name today.

Out loud.

To us.

She whispered it like a secret, "Matthew."

The Heart surged with joy.

Even Brain got misty.

I repeated it to myself softly to see how it felt inside me.

Matthew.

I think he liked it, too, because he gave me a right elbow to the stomach and a quick kick to the side. He got so worked up that he got the hiccups. And let me tell you, that's not fun.

August 7

We're on a countdown now. I can feel it.

The landlord has started playing lullabies at night. Talking to him like he's already here.

And me?

Heart and Brain have been giving me the scoop. I'm not entirely clear on what or when it's going to happen, but I guess Matthew will be leaving and getting his own home.

I've started saying goodbye to the little things — those bumps and kicks. Oh yeah, and the hiccups. At least I didn't have to deal with the heartburn. Poor Stomach got blasted with that one.

Soon, Matthew won't be just mine anymore.

He'll belong to the world.

August 15

Today, Heart wept.

She wasn't sad — just full.

She pulsed warmth through me, and I wrapped it around Matthew like a hug.

The landlord sat still for a long time with her hands on her belly.

She whispered, "I'm ready… I think."

And all of us inside — me, Heart, Brain, even Bladder — we just sat with her.

The doctor and nurse smiled and said he'd be here soon. Crazy humans. Don't they know he's been here for months? I'm not sure if I can entrust them with the moving process. Or is that me not wanting to let go?

August 18

Landlord must have had her doubts about the doctor, too. We've been attending classes, and she's been lying on the floor and doing some unusual things. At first, when I heard her huffing and puffing, I thought she was expecting the torpedo again. Matthew, I like using his name, gave her a strong kick. Kind of like a warning that there wasn't any more room for anyone else in here.

August 20

She was back at it tonight — lying on the floor.  You'd think she'd know the thing she lies on at home is a lot softer. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention there are a bunch of humans doing the same thing — lying there, huffing and puffing and grunting. Maybe it's connected to football, and they are preparing in the huddle.

August 22

Tonight was movie night at that strange place. I had to cover Matthew's ears. A voice was talking about pain and how not to think about it, but to be prepared. This human has lost touch with the world. Pain is not something you ignore.

September 12

It started last night.

At first, I thought it was another false alarm — you know, more of those fake practice contractions that feel like fire drills without the flames.

But then the pressure hit.

And kept hitting.

It came in waves, squeezing me so hard, like they were trying to get to Matthew. I kept waiting for it, like a balloon was going to pop.

Heart was thumping double-time.

Bladder screamed, "THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

Even Brain forgot how to form complete thoughts. She just kept yelling, "BAG! KEYS! SHOES!"

The landlord doubled over and cursed — not at us, I don't think — but maybe at whoever invented babies in general. My mind kept racing back to that first night, and I was cursing, too.

Then the dam broke — water gushed out the front door like Niagara Falls. There wasn't a dry place in the house.

My human called for help.

Someone brought the metal contraption on wheels (Brain says it's a car, but I still don't trust anything that goes that fast and smells like french fries).

And off we went.

September 13

Okay. I won’t lie. It was chaos.

Screaming. Pacing. Poking. Yelling.
Someone kept saying “breathe,” and I was like, “Shut up! Can’t you see I am under a little duress here? I am a womb. I do not breathe.”

Then came the .....  PUSHING.

OH — MY — GOD!

THE PUSHING!!!!
 

Imagine trying to squeeze a watermelon into yesterday’s empty gallon milk jug.

Now imagine it’s your job to make it happen.
Yep.

My walls shook. The lights blurred. Bladder fainted. Again.

And just like that — whoosh, he was gone. I was so busy, I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

And exhausted! Thought my walls were going to collapse and never recover. It was a mess.

And then, I heard him scream. Brain said it was a cry, but after what Matthew had been through, it was a scream. Thought I was going to die. But Heart and Brain were so excited and said it was great — a celebration. I felt bad that I didn’t exactly feel the same way.

My roommate was gone. He belonged to a new world now. According to Brain he has a wonderful life ahead of him filled with love and adventure. Heart emphasized the love. She’s big on that mushy stuff.

September 16

It’s quiet now.
Almost too quiet.

No more kicks. No hiccups. No wild cannonballs off my ceiling.
Just stillness. And the slow work of healing.

I’m sore. A little stretched. A little squishy. But I’m still standing. Well… metaphorically.

We went home today. And Matthew came, too.

I felt her press her hand against me. Warm. Gentle.
She whispered, “Thank you.”

And Heart? She glowed like the sunrise.

He’s out there now — screaming, eating, filling diapers.
A whole new world waiting for him.

And me?
I’ll miss him.
Every ripple. Every somersault.

I’d held him when no one else could. Now someone else would hold him forever.

But this space — it’s mine again.

Not empty. Just waiting.

Because let’s be honest… if another one of those torpedoes shows up…I’ll be ready.
(Maybe.)