Since before I can remember, I've wanted to be a mother. It seemed my whole childhood and my teenage years were spent yearning for a child of my own.
By the time I was nine, I had names and color schemes for the nursery picked out. All I needed was someone to make them with. College was disappointing. I went through a long string of bad boyfriends and poor father material.
Getting on with my career didn't seem to help much. I realized, though, when I was twenty-seven — and there were no suitable prospects on the line — that, technically, I didn't need a man to have a child with. I found a sperm bank, and chose the best prospective donor they had available. I went home, got out my turkey baster and... well... hoped for the best.
I was overjoyed when my first pregnancy test came out positive. My doctor was surprised to see me coming in sooner than he'd expected. Before I was four weeks along, I had the nursery painted and the furniture set up. Toys and diapers, bottles and books, bibs and coveralls... I had everything a new mother would need.
I couldn't explain all the weight I was losing, however. I kept getting thinner — everything except for my belly. My friends all joked that it had to be twins at the very least, or the biggest baby they had ever seen.
I got weary of the kicking somewhere in the third trimester... and the scratching.
Just one more week until my due date.
I just wish it would stop gnawing.