Now I know why, in mid-July, I couldn't write about my first year in France.
Because my true anniversary is September, à la rentrée. The dreaded gravity-well of Real Life. The inexorable return to school and work after the endless July and August holidays, the true beginning of the year. Budgets are drawn, goals are set, plans are made.
Re-entering, I am also reliving, reanimating, replaying and I see that I am not the only one. Ghosts and memories come knocking on my door. Instead of "speak of the Devil" the French say "when we speak of the wolf (we see its tail)", and I prefer this fleeting creature to the devil who rudely zaps into existence. Wolves tails flick out of sight behind every corner I turn.
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This second pregnancy is nothing like my first. I am calm, cocooning. I do my exercises, occasionally even yoga. I have an ample supply of comfortable maternity clothes and a giant (and I mean giant) horseshoe pillow that encloses and immobilises me in a firm hold at night. Sshhh. It whispers. I got you.
I am on top of my medical appointments. I take my vitamins and monitor my blood pressure. I have been registered at the maternity hospital since around the third month of my pregnancy. My husband and I spent about 15 minutes discussing a baby name, decided, smiling, and haven’t wavered since.
I am, in short, having almost the opposite experience as my first pregnancy.