I am trying to appreciate this pregnancy, and not hurry it up. I am so impatient, already I am counting weeks until the ultrasound, counting weeks until the end of the first trimester, counting weeks until the birth—feeling restless and anxious for time to pass.

When I was pregnant with the twins, I thought it would be my last pregnancy, and so I had a little rejoicing/mourning thing going with each new thing: “Woo hoo, that was the LAST morning sickness! Ohhh, that was the last time I’ll feel ‘the first real kick’,” etc. After the babies were born, I felt a little pang of envy every time I read a book where a character discovers she’s pregnant. I wished for that feeling again, that feeling when you see the second line appear. I wished for the anticipation: will the baby be a boy or a girl, and what will he/she look like, and when will he/she be here? I wished for that feeling of having a secret passenger—and then, later, of that feeling that everyone can see that you’re working on something important.

Of course, as soon as I get the unexpected treat of experiencing that anticipation and those feelings again, I start RUSHING it. Oh, god, I’m not even six weeks, why can’t things move faster? I am trying not to do that. I’m trying to enjoy the knowledge that I Am Pregnant, and trying to enjoy the fun of not knowing everything yet. It is difficult, though, to fully enjoy The Moment when I feel like I’m going to start barfing any minute now.

I am always reading and hearing about how it important it is to “live in the now,” to “be present.” This is not something that comes naturally to me. I like to live partly in the now, and partly in the later.

This way of living is what helps me to keep things together, even with four children. Yes, part of me is here, listening to my 7-year-old tell me about number stories (that’s what they’re calling word problems now)–but part of me is keeping a mental list that stretches from what I need to do in 5 minutes (get the laundry before the buzzer drives me insane, bring that box to the basement on my way down to get the laundry, start the twins on a snack) to what I need to do in 50 years (should probably leave grandma’s jade jewelry set to a granddaughter).

This is also what lets me keep an optimistic outlook when something unexpected happens. Paul, who lives in the now to such an extent that he won’t put a twist-tie on the bread because he can’t envision a time when the bread will turn stale, is overwhelmed at the idea of this unexpected pregnancy. He is not thinking far enough ahead. He is thinking short-term at best: how will we handle so many little children, how will we afford so many diapers? Whereas I am happily dwelling in the future, where we will look back on this as the lovely, lovely surprise that brought us our darling child ____, who is getting married today and hasn’t it all gone so fast?

Last night we emailed our parents with the news that we were expecting again. This is my fourth time sharing news of this sort, and every single time it has made me feel like barfing.

The first time was most disillusioning, because I had thought that telling would be one of the most fun things about being pregnant—but then after I told, I had that barfy feeling and almost wished I weren’t pregnant. With subsequent pregnancies I’ve been more prepared for that feeling.

It’s such a relief to be getting the telling part over with.

An unexpected (but welcome) pregnancy is one of the craziest surprise treats ever. It’s like going out on errands, and when I come back there’s this huge gift-wrapped package on our front porch. It’s like finding out I have a talent for something I never would have expected I could do, breaking out into loud perfect song and getting signed on the spot.

I was walking along saying la-la-la, and I had no idea I had a stowaway. There I was, feeling sad about not having more babies! There I was, doing the grocery shopping! There I was, going out to get the mail! And all along, you were already there. And then the day came that I found out about you, and everything shifted.

Now I know you’re in there. I’m sending you messages, messages of folic acid and vitamin A and extra iron. I’m you gifts, gifts like skipping coffee and going to bed early and not coloring my hair. You’re the size of a sesame seed, and already you need things from me.

You know what makes a great cleaning brush for faucets? One of those little soft baby hairbrushes they give you in the maternity ward of the hospital. A little hairbrush that will have lived at your house for less than two years by the time you bring home another little hairbrush. Oh, god.

I am still reeling from the news that I am unexpectedly expecting. I found out about the usefulness of that little brush during an adrenaline-fueled cleaning frenzy yesterday. I was restless and energetic, and couldn’t sit still or focus. The twins are still babies to me, and now there will be another baby. It is hard for that information to absorb. I’m letting it sit on my skin, waiting.

I’m glad I used some of that energy to clean the bathroom. I’ve been reading my old journals from the beginnings of my other pregnancies, and I see I can expect to be barfing soon, and relentlessly.

Paul is freaking out a little: how will we have enough time and attention for five children? and where will we put them all? and how will we afford them all? I am not freaking out about these things. I am focused on the impending barfing.

Remember a couple of days ago, my dream that I was in the OB’s office waiting to find out if I were pregnant? Remember me saying that I would like another baby? Holy crap, I didn’t mean RIGHT THIS SECOND.

Due date June 7th, 2007. That’s before the twins’ second birthday.

Have any of you ever been tempted to say something less than fully supportive to your chatty, communicative 5-year-old? Something along the lines of “Shut up, shut UP, SHUT UPPPPPPPPPPP!” Just me, then?

I feel like my mind is a bucket, and it can only hold so much before it starts spilling all over the place, causing flooding and water damage and insurance claims that never get settled satisfactorily. I have so many things I’m thinking about and keeping track of, it’s like I’m balancing on a high wire. Any additional input is like a little shove. A constant stream of chatter is like getting poked with a stick again and again and again and again.

I try to stop what I’m doing and FOCUS. I know I should be engaging in careful, loving listening. I should be giving my whole attention. I know I should be valuing these conversations, setting them aside for the days when I’m begging my sullen, silent teenager to say even a single word to me other than a grunt.

I can’t, though. I can’t. It’s one thing if it’s one of those cute things you can write down in the journal: William to Robert, in a superior tone of voice, “Things that live in the water aren’t animals. They’re INSECTS.” It’s another thing entirely when it’s a relentless monologue: “Mommy, I’m up here. I see an ant down there! Look at this piece of paper, it’s so paper! Paper paper paper paper paper. POW! Pow pow pow, I got you, baby Edward! Look, Mommy, I got baby Edward. Mommy, can you get this knot out? Can you make a new knot, EXACTLY in the middle? I want it in the middle. Middle middle middle, a knot in the middle. There’s that ant! A, B, C, one, two, three! Ding, dong, baby! Ding, dong, baby! Ding, baby, dong, baby! Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong! My teeth are chilly! Nyuh nyuh nyuh nyuh. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy! I see another ant.”

And so on. Let’s say this has gone on for half an hour. Let’s say I’ve asked him nicely to go find something to do, to give me a minute to rest my ears, to hang on for a second while I finish this one thing I’m trying to remember to put on the shopping list….oh no, I’ve forgotten it. NOW may I use “shut up”? DANG IT. Can I get earplugs, then? NO? You are so strict.

You know what I love? It’s when a baby is working up to a real pisser of a fit, avoiding eye contact and resisting being held and generally communicating that nothing you could ever say or do would make up for the wild injustice that has been done here today–and then you offer the baby something fairly basic, like a piece of cardboard that came in a package of shirts, and the tantrum shuts off like a switch. The baby is riveted, full rapt attention snap-focused on the item in a way that would only happen to me if you handed me a check for a million dollars. In fact, it couldn’t even be you handing me the check, it would have to be John Cusack, handing me the check while holding a boom box over his head–I guess the check would be in his teeth, which is even better. Also, it would have to be cash, not a check.

I had a dream the other night (I’ll make this brief: other people’s dreams are deadly boring) that I was in the waiting room of the OB/GYN. I was there to find out if I was pregnant. It doesn’t take a dream interpretation book to figure this out. I’ve weaned the twins, so this is the last month before I’m back on the Pill. My period is due any day now. I’ve been thinking of how funny it would be to get to the month before going back on the Pill–and then be pregnant that month. Not so much funny-ha-ha as funny-oh-my-god, but still.

I think I am in real trouble: I have four children–FOUR–and I still want another baby. I keep thinking about pregnancy and baby names and finding out what the new child is like. This does not bode well for future happiness. I hope I’m not going to be like my mom: in her 50s, through menopause, married to a man who’s been snipped for over 30 years, and STILL hoping every month that she’s pregnant. I’m doomed, aren’t I? Genetically doomed.

I’ve even thought, “Well, maybe we should have another.” It really hardly seems to matter at this point: one more baby? We’re already inundated with them, we’d hardly notice the difference. There’s room in the minivan for another car seat. I still have time before I turn Scary 35. But then where does it end? I always thought my mom’s problem was that she had only two children when she wanted to have three, but if she’d had three or even four I’ll bet she’d still have wanted more. Evidently we’re hardwired for endless baby production.

About the population explosion–I know, I know, don’t even tell me. Tell my ESTROGEN.

Elizabeth has been Little Miss Tantrum McFusserton. She pitches fits about EVERYTHING, and we rarely know what her current problem is. Edward took something away from her? She got stuck momentarily? She doesn’t like her outfit?

I don’t think any of our babies have pitched fits in this classical style: the arched back, the slammed-back head, the squeezed-shut eyes, the entire tiny body contributing to the roars of rage. Right now, as we enter the stage, it seems so comical, it just makes me want to squeeze and smooch her more: Who does this child think she IS, to have such loud opinions when she is only as big as two atoms? I’m sure in time this urge to squeeze and kiss and laugh will fade, to be replaced with the urge to muzzle and sequester.