The initial shock of discovering my pregnancy felt… good. A welcome surprise. Bruce's reaction was even better. He radiated happiness, lifting me into a dizzying kiss that felt like a promise of a future overflowing with joy. The boys, however, each responded in their own, distinct way.
Dick practically vibrated with excitement, already declaring himself a big brother. Jason, usually so stoic, let a single tear slip as he admitted, “I’m going to be a big bro.” Tim’s enthusiasm was quieter, but no less genuine. I overheard him murmuring about teaching the little one everything he knew.
Damian, predictably, was… complicated. He couldn’s wait to teach his sibling defense tactics, but a shadow of skepticism lingered in his gaze. He was a child who craved attention, and he feared being overshadowed by a new baby. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, he worried about losing his place in our hearts. It took reassurance – countless assurances that our love would expand to encompass the new arrival – to slowly thaw his resistance.
Four months into my pregnancy, Bruce’s anxiety reached a fever pitch. He hovered, fussing over every little thing. It was… endearing, at first. Then, it began to grate.
“Honey, stop, that’s too heavy for you to lift.”
“Bruce, it’s a jar of cookies.”
The real frustration started with the kicks. Every flutter of movement from the baby sent Bruce into a panic, convinced labor was imminent. By eight months, he was practically hyperventilating with every nudge.
One afternoon, a particularly sharp kick sent a wave of discomfort through me. A reflexive “Ow” slipped out. Bruce, predictably, erupted into chaos. The absurdity of his reaction was too much to contain. I dissolved into laughter.
He froze, his face contorted with worry. “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m laughing *at* you,” I managed, still chuckling. “It just hurt a little, that’s all. I’m not in labor.”
He slowly calmed, his shoulders relaxing. “C’mon,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s watch something.”
We settled on the sofa. “Are you sure you’re not going into labor?” he asked, his voice laced with anxiety.
“Yes, Bruce,” I sighed, already turning my attention to the screen. “Now watch the damn movie.”
He grumbled in agreement, but the question hung in the air.
“But are you *sure*?”
I ignored him, focusing on the film. I needed a moment of peace, a reprieve from his constant concern. I needed to feel normal, to feel like this pregnancy wasn’t a crisis to be managed.
I sighed and ignored him, choosing to watch the film that was displaying on the TV than listen to my loving husband.