It's official. I'm not pregnant. But, like, half of the women on Aaron's side of the family are. Okay... more like 5 of them are. All due within 3-4 months of each other, with most of the babies due in December and January. And typically, babies are born in sets of three on that side of the family... so we're waiting for one more announcement.
It won't be from me.
While I am SO EXCITED for all of them... I really, truly am... and a little bit jealous... really and truly... I am also relieved that it's not me making an announcement. Cause I am so done having babies... especially when I feel like I still have 3 of them... and in reality, I still have one very sweet and monstrous baby boy who makes a great caboose.
And right about now I have a handful of friends who are due any day... any week... last week... 2 days ago... who are hating life. Happy to be giving birth at any given moment, or with the doctors scheduled permission. But painfully and anxiously running out of human hotel space, and patience. And thinking about them reminds me of just how cruel those last few days can be before the BIG arrival.
Like the questions...
"How are you feeling?"
"How much longer?"
"Are you done yet?"
"You're still pregnant?"
"Do you know what you're naming him?"
"When are you due again?"
Or the uncomplimentary comments...
"You look like you're about to pop!"
"You look ready!"
"You look huge!"
"You look tired"
"You look huge and tired!"
And hearing all of those (plus more) comments from people at church was enough to make me think about going inactive. (I didn't just in case you were wondering.)
But once you've delivered, and adjusted, and life has calmed down... and your baby is almost 22 months... it's easy to remember when you were 9 months pregnant and ready to burst. The anticipation... how it will happen... when it will happen... where will you be when it happens... the drive to the hospital... the epidural... the fun times hanging out with your husband while you wait for your body to do it's thing... talking about names... chewing on ice chips... wondering what he will look like... how much will he weigh... will he have hair (or in my case, how much hair will he have)... the pushing... the sweat... the amazingly satisfying deep breath once he's out... the relief... the tears... and instant love.
The first moments of welcoming him to the family. Inspecting every little finger and toe. Tracing little ears, lips, and nose. Hearing his little cry... in his own, little voice. Introducing yourself for the first time...
"Hi... I'm your mommy... I'm so glad you're finally here. And this is your daddy. You look just like him."
Holding, kissing, snuggling, feeding, touching, loving, praying, thanking. Wishing you could stop time to really enjoy the moment, because you know as tired as you are, you can't really enjoy the moment like you want to.
Worrying about feeding, sleeping, scheduling, driving home in the car (at a steady 25 mph) taking side streets and all, pooping, peeing, the crusty umbilical cord piece thing falling off, the circumcision recovery, wiping those parts correctly, blow-outs, spit up, projectile spit up, sitting straight up in bed as he sleeps peacefully at 3 am because you are unable to take your eyes off that perfect, little face, and then getting out of bed to put your finger under his nose to make sure he's still breathing because he never sleeps this long. Oh, the worry.
Oh the joy!
But like a friend once told me- the belly is the best babysitter. And as wonderful as the anticipation and the first meeting is, she is totally right.