A Baby by Any Other Diaper ...

Every pregnancy is different, they say.

They say a lot of things, really. Since my last pregnancy was a decade and a half ago, I have trouble remembering what, if anything, is different.

When I lost all reasonable control of my emotions during this second trimester, I told an old college roommate, "Geez, I don't remember being like this before."

"Dude, you were pretty emotional," Megan replied, remembering what it was like to live with me then. (Yes, "dude." It was the '90s, whaddya want?)

I know for certain that I had managed to skip morning sickness before. When I made it through the first three months this time around with little more than queasiness, I thought my innards had special fortitude. Come month four, I was barfing in my office bathroom well past morning.

I do remember liking pregnancy before. I had wanted to be a mommy since, oh, about 6 years old, carting around dolls and becoming fascinated with real babies when my cousin Amanda was born. I'm told I was fascinated with my baby brother, but I don't really remember his infancy three years after my own.

I had really good parents and really good grandparents, and raising a family was as inheritable as the farm. I knew I was going to be a mother some day.

I didn't know that I would become one while I was still trying to finish up my $100,000 education, or that it would throw me and my fiance into veritable poverty, or that it would make starting my journalism career that much more challenging.

As hard as that was, I was still happy about being pregnant and even happier once my angel Gabriel was born. I was a confident, attentive baby mama, and he thrived. He was a good eater, a good sleeper, a good pooper, pretty much good all the way around.

Yes, I called my mother once, tearfully confessing that I wanted to throw him out the window. I happen to think that is normal, and quite healthy to tell someone about it. Frankly, if you don't want to throw your kids out of a window at some point in their lives, I doubt you're putting all of your heart into parenting.

That may be the only thing I'm sure will be the same this time around, those desperate moments a mom can feel when a baby won't stop crying or her body won't resemble anything besides a beached whale or her partner won't live up to whatever crazy expectations she is having at any given moment. Dude, we get pretty emotional.

As for everything else, who knows? I was 22 then, I'm now 37. My body constantly reminds me of that too, with my uterus falling forward within weeks and my hips complaining all night long. I may have given up alcohol like before, but this time I've clung to one cherished can of diet Coke each morning. (I get up at stupid o'clock for my commute to my newspaper, and caffeine-free was a lot easier at 22.)

This pregnancy seems far more temperamental. I am thrilled to have conceived within three months of trying, especially at my age, but it has come with discomforts I hadn't experienced before. I didn't even know you could get varicose veins in certain places.

Before, I craved fish sandwiches. Specifically, with cheese, which I happen to think is revolting. I haven't eaten a fish sandwich topped with cheese since Gabe was born, but I couldn't get enough of them while he was in utero. This baby boy yanks his umbilical cord with constant requests for potatoes. Specifically, home fries. I will be eating those until I die.

I don't know if it's the potatoes or what, but this fetus is in constant motion and seems far more forceful in his movements. I was having a conversation with my supervisor the other day and let out in involuntary yelp after a swift kick in whatever now remains of my left ovary. I don't remember that part, but it's certainly possible baby boy No.1 was the Karate Kid.

Gabe's birth took three damn days. Medical paperwork records that, even if the experience hadn't burned indelibly into my psyche. I sure hope that part is different this time around. I sometimes wonder how much being an unmarried Medicaid recipient at a teaching hospital played into the decision to not give me a C-section, but it may just have been the natural length of time to squeeze out a 9-pounder.

There are no ways to control some of these pregnancy differences, but I've got that one covered in my birthing plan:

"Do not let me go that long in labor. You will regret doing so, I promise."