As she waits for baby number two, writer Jenna McCarthy discovers the challenges—and rewards—of knowing exactly what to expect

“Congratulations,” the elderly lady in line behind me whispers, nodding reverently at my massive middle. “Your first?”  

“No,” I shake my head with a knowing look that all but implies that I have incubated dozens—possibly hundreds—of offspring. The truth is I have one daughter, Sophie, and her new sister is threatening to emerge any minute now. I realize that this hardly qualifies me as a professional procreator, but I’m no rookie either.

While I spent roughly 39-and-a-half of the 41 weeks I was pregnant with Sophie thinking and worrying obsessively about the delivery, it wasn’t until my eighth month that it even occurred to me this time around that I was actually going to have to birth a live human being again. It’s not like the maiden voyage was such a joyride that there should be no cause for concern (quite the opposite, in fact, but I’ll spare you the details). But I learned that stressing about every possible outcome and unlikely complication has zero effect on what actually goes down in that delivery room. (And if I may be so bold, it’s one day out of your life! You’re better off preparing for the 18 years that come immediately afterward, because that’s where you’re going to need some help.) 

While this pregnancy has seemed to go a lot faster, in many ways it’s been twice as hard. Thanks to an unfortunate phenomenon I call Uterine Muscle Memory, I began to “show” sooner, which means I’ve been sporting my trusty under-the-belly jogging suit since about 30 seconds after the pregnancy test came back positive. (Finding the time or energy to actually jog in it has been another matter altogether.) 

By now, the novelty of doll-sized booties and butter-soft blankets has worn off, which is probably a good thing as chasing a tireless toddler around means I no longer have untold hours to spend rearranging these items in an over-decorated nursery. (The truth is, this kid will be lucky if her crib is assembled and outfitted with clean sheets by the time she arrives.) And—silly me—I thought debilitating morning sickness and crippling fatigue were challenging when I could crawl into bed and stay there for days on end. These days I struggle to keep a smile on my face as I serve up an endless string of slimy finger foods and engage in the day’s thirty-seventh rousing round of ring-around-the-rosie.

And yet, making the leap from novice to vet also has its rewards. I don’t worry as much about getting my body back; partly because it happened effortlessly after Sophie (thank you, nursing), and partly because having a perfect body isn’t quite so high on my priority list any more. When Sophie’s due date came and went without her debut, I thought the anticipation would kill me. It’s hard to feel that kind of urgency when—as unfun as pregnancy can be—I now know how much harder it is once the baby is on the outside of your body. I’m not obsessed with accumulating all of the latest/greatest/most expensive baby gear, as I doubt my new baby will realize that her older sister drooled on “her” car seat/high chair/exersaucer first, and I don’t plan on telling her. Most of all, I no longer question my ability to mother, because I have a beautiful, brilliant, kind-hearted daughter who proves to me every day that I’m doing a great job.