I like pregnancy a whole lot better the second time around. I don't mind so much that every time I look in the mirror my body is different, or that my appetite is sometimes so out of control that I could very well drive out in the middle of the night to the nearest KFC for a bucket of fried chicken. I've become attached to my bulging belly that makes me waddle a little when I walk. Yes, I even quite like the way I look. I may never look this way again, after all.
The first time around, I was so clueless that I buried myself in all the parenting material I could get my hands on: books, magazines, online forums, Internet articles, advice from well-intentioned friends and family and weird advice from random people who felt it necessary to stop me on the street when they saw my bump. I read up on breastfeeding, baby wearing, bathing, sleeping and diapering, like my life (and the baby's) depended on it. By the time Matthew came along I was in such a state of near-hysteria from the thought of all the rules of parenting, that I barely knew what to do with myself. And then, after a few weeks, it hit me. I STILL KNEW NOTHING. None of the stuff I had spent hours absorbing meant a damn thing. I was going to have to get on with it, my way.
A year and a bit later and here I am again. This time much more nonchalant about the whole thing. Mind you, it's easy for me to say that now. I'm in the 2nd trimester pleasant place: not sick, not too big, not too uncomfortable, not too close to the end... yet. I still have plenty of time (4 whole months!) to ponder the idea of becoming a family of 4 (5 if you include the dog).