The other day I was skimming an article about the Duggars and their 19th child, Josie, who was born premature at 25 weeks.  I try not to judge the Duggars; it doesn't go along with my effort to really live by "to each their own" but it's hard to not have opinions about a couple with nineteen children.

But this time, for once, that's not what I was thinking about.  As I skimmed the article, it was like my eyes hit a wall.

Twenty-five weeks.  Little Josie Duggar was delivered at 25 weeks.  I'm going to be twenty-five weeks this Wednesday.

Oh holy crap.

As I've mentioned, I've worried a lot during this pregnancy.  But up until now, any worries about the health and well-being of The Force involved worries about how we'd deal if something happened and we lost him.  Now, I realized, we've entered the period where the worry isn't how we'd deal with a loss - but how we'd deal with our premature infant who would quite possibly (quite probably?) survive something at this stage.

Oh holy crap!

This freaked me out.  We're having a baby.  Of course, no duh, of course we're having a baby - we've been talking about this for six months now.  But now, really, we'll be having a baby, probably no matter what happens.  (I still say "probably" because I can't stop worrying about jinxing us.)  This freakout led to a number of thoughts: What would I do about my job?  What about school?  Would I have to take a leave of absence this semester and return my financial aid?  Could the hubby get off work for the week? What would we do with Buster?  How would we deal with the medical issues, nevermind the medical bills?  Where would the baby even sleep??  We don't even have the vaguest semblance of a nursery set up!

But, no, of course we don't - because who does at 25 weeks?  This didn't stop me from mentioning this to the hubby yesterday and starting to cry.  I guess it's starting to all get a little scary.  There's a lot to do and even more to think about.

But, as I force myself to take some deep breaths, I shouldn't be worrying.  Last Thursday (the evening of the annoying glucose test debacle), I had my most recent sonogram and everything looks perfect.  The tech estimated that The Force weighs 1lb 11oz (at 24 weeks, more than the 1lb 6oz that Josie Duggar weighed at 25 weeks).  We also finally got a fairly good view of an open hand and it seems our little boy has long fingers - all the better to play the guitar that the hubby is already looking to buy him (to add to the twelve guitars that the hubby already owns, I'm just saying).

The hubby hasn't felt The Force kick yet even though I feel him every day.  Even though he's pretty big, I think my stomach just isn't in the shape it needs to be for the kicks to be felt on the outside easily.  I bought a Tummy Sleeve (in black) on Friday so I could wear my jeans unbuttoned because those denim waistbands are particularly unforgiving (my work pants still feel fine most of the time, except after lunch, but I know it's just a matter of time before I'm regularly unbuttoning those, too).  Every now and then I'll be working or doing something and then I feel that little bubbly thump and I go, "Oh yeah.  I'm pregnant.  How's it going in there?"  He's starting to respond to meals - kicking more after I eat dinner, in particular.  Hopefully those are, "That was good, send down more!" kicks and not, "You don't really expect me to eat that stuff when I'm older, do you??" kicks.

So I'm going to keep on worrying because that's how I get things done.  That's how you hold down two jobs and go to grad school and maintain an "A" average - you don't stop worrying that there's something else you still need to do.  Worrying keeps me on my toes and keeps me from slacking and forgetting my responsibilities.  As long I don't get to the point of stressed-out worry (I really need to stop crying about incomplete chores), I think I'm fine.  I'm beginning to feel the thoughts transition to happy worry . . . like, "Oh my goodness, we're having a baby and nothing is done!  But OH MY GOD, we're having a baby!"

And that is the best part.  So thanks, I guess, to the Duggars for reminding me about that.