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I made an important decision last night. It was about time that I started loving this baby. At 8 weeks pregnant, I've done nothing but complain and worry: I'm sick all the time. I'm exhausted. I'm old. I've been there, done that. How could we actually be pregnant? We hadn't even decided we wanted to be pregnant. My boobs hurt. My skin itches. I'm nauceous.

Of course, it didn't help that my husband remains in total denial. He's only spoken semi-openly about this baby once. And that was at a party, after a few beers, and it was filled with complaints. Otherwise, he's keeping quiet. Refraining from discussion. It took until I was 6 weeks along for him to even learn the due date. He claims, in fact, that he'll believe there's a baby only after he sees it (and so he is required to attend our ultrasound on June 17. Its mandatory, honey.) And in his humor, he's mentioned more than one time that he "questions my ability to take a test."

Still. We're having this baby. This little thing who is "about the size of a kidney bean." Its ours. And while our families may not know about it yet, or most of our friends, its about time I started loving it.

And so, last night, I ventured over to the old "I'm pregnant, now what!?" resources. Signed on to Baby Center and pulled out my now ancient edition of Your Pregnancy Week by Week. And you know what? My baby's webbed fingers and toes are starting to pop out. Its organs haven't been established enough to determine the gender, but its nerve cells in the brain are branching and connecting and the breathing tubes are expanding. My baby is my baby. This little thing that in 32 weeks will be in my arms, attracting the love of all who glance. Carving a niche in my heart.

And so today, through the itches, the nausea, the exhaustion and the questions, I put my hand on my belly and feel warmth. Feel love. And tonight, I'm annoucing that its about time baby's daddy start loving this baby.