needles and pinches

too goddamn young

you came into peace
little hearts, little feet

six weeks

i'm pregnant again.

i should be happy. elated. exhilarated. parts of me, however, the parts that have seen and felt and known too much, those parts are quivering in dread.

what if it all went wrong? what if i fail, once more? what if i lose this child too, like i had their older siblings?

i should be happy. i fear instead.

i walk home, waddling through the snow like a newly hatched duckling. i see not the pavement, but stretches of cold and white and nothingness paint my field of vision. my hands are numb, my breath stuttering in my chest. the doctor knows better than to sugarcoat things now; i've had four miscarriages, none of them expected, because how the hell can i predict losing my children? still, she tried to sweet-talk me, hopeless and harmless little placations: the ultrasound looks good, mr. stark, the baby is healthy; as if my previous pregnancies hadn't been good and healthy at one point or another. i lost them all the same.

i lock myself in the workshop, bury the test papers under piles of metal and wires, and say not a word when steve asks where have i been.

nine weeks

morning sickness is a bitch.

moving down into the workshop seemed like the most reasonable thing to do, and so i did at the first signs of nausea. i can't possibly have a convincing explanation for why i'm awake in the wee hours of the morning, hunched over a toilet bowl puking my guts out. there will most possibly be doctors involved, tests to be done, and pregnancy to be unravelled. my husbands shall be very, very mad, and also worried shitless. i am not ready to be cocooned and hand-fed. i certainly do not want to be confined to a bed.

so i pull through.

i regret.

the pristine, frigid porcelain bowl meets my eyes again from across the bathroom, nonchalant, indifferent. it is unsullied, innocent and clean, but that won't be for long. my stomach roils violently, like a boat rocking through stormy seas. bile creeps up my oesophagus, burning a steady trace of acid, and i puke.

for the umpteenth time tonight.

it's alright, i think absentmindedly, caressing my belly. i can endure this much.

as long as my child is alive.

twelve weeks

miranda frowns.

your baby is growing a tad too quickly for its age, mr. stark, she says, flipping through charts and ultrasound pictures. she is worried. i'm just scared. this had happened before, on my second pregnancy, and mere days after my last checkup it had gone away.

whatifwhatifwhatif-

she opens a new file. medication, it says on the cover. she gives me a prescription, progestogens and vitamins. this is good. this means we have a chance.

i think of baby number two as i heave up my dinner into the toilet.

seventeen weeks

steve knows. which means james knows too, because there is no secret between these two. my husbands are just like that.

this day is bound to come anyway. i have a bump already, a rather prominent one at that. i can't stay in the workshop for as long as i used to. one won't even need steve's sharp eyes or james's terrifying sixth sense to find out the things i'm hiding.