It's December 22.
Last year, I was 37 weeks pregnant, retiring from most regular daily activities, waddling everywhere I went, unable to jam my feet into almost any of my shoes. I was pregnant.
Two years ago, I had just found out, nine weeks into my second pregnancy, that no fetus had developed. A sad sack on the couch, I awaited my scheduled D&C the next day to remove the "products of conception." I was pregnant. . .technically.
Three years ago, if I had taken a pregnancy test, it would have been positive. I was about four weeks pregnant with my first baby, a little fighter my inhospitable womb would eventually starve to death and expel. I was pregnant, but I didn't know it yet.
I don't feel like I've spent most of my marriage pregnant or anything, but three times in just over two years is technically quite often. And it only recently occurred to me that I was pregnant this time of year three years in a row. At almost one year, this is the longest stretch of my marriage that I've gone not-pregnant. That's kind of amazing!
Everything is amazing and weird. And I am so, so profound.
As for this year? Looks like I'm breaking my streak. ;)