Just Nod if You Can Hear Me

"Your crickets are talking," The Boy said the other day over the phone. Despite being my biggest cheerleader, he's also one of the biggest slackers among those who have read anything I've written. So if he's complaining, you know it's bad.

How I've missed you! So much to update. Since last I was here, I've been everywhere. I am nearly 38 weeks along in the incubation of my child, whom I have come to believe may actually be doing Pilates in the womb. In layman's terms: She's kicking the crap out of me. I am getting anxious for her birth, the least romantic reason being I'm sick and tired of being pregnant! "How do you feel," is the most common question I'm asked, and I feel bad answering it. Honestly? My back is killing me; I pee several times in the middle of the night; I have contractions all the time, consistently and progressively closer together all day long, and then they just stop. No progress. And don't even ask about my last appointment. After a few rough days and rougher nights, I dragged myself to the OB, hopeful for news that included the word "centimeters." She said, at 37 weeks, there was no need to check.

"Most babies are born between 38 and 41 weeks," she explained. I was unsure why this mattered; I just needed a little something for the effort. Needed to be reminded I would not be pregnant forever-- that progress, however slowly, was being made. But it was not in the cards. I cried and called Amber and told her I'm never having a baby or wearing jeans that have a button on them ever again. I've been a little emotional.

All of this is true, yes, but I'm also working hard to relish the good things about the now. We spent a long weekend in November in Charleston for a friend's gorgeous wedding; spent lots of time with Edes and Tara, which was awesome. One last visit before I'm officially a mother, and one last plane ride and exploratory mini-vacation with The Boy before we add another title to our list. I teared up one night over a giggly pizza dinner for two. "I love that we're buddies and lovers," I told him. "But I'm nervous that once we add parents to the list, we won't be lovers anymore."

"No," he replied, "We will make sure we are all three. But no more. We can't be anymore than three."

A couple weeks later, we ventured to Connecticut for another last-- the last visit without the baby. I worried about raucous nights under the rationalization that it was the "last" time, but was pleasantly surprised with movies on the couch, an extravagant wedding we were all invited to that was a blast, a roasted chicken dinner and Christmas songs and early presents with the siblings. They threw us a lovely shower which netted us so many gifts The Boy could barely fit them (and the dog and me) in the car.

And back to now. The Christmas tree and lights are finally up, and the last of the gifts have been ordered and shipped. All of the baby clothes are washed and folded, organized and put away according to tiny size. The bassinet has taken the place of the dog's bed in our room; there's a Graco "Cherry Blossom" car seat on my black leather back seat. My suitcase has been triple checked and stands at attention, ready to go, whenever the moment arrives. I'm excited and terrified; impatient and acutely aware that it will happen when I least expect it and then we can never go back. I try to relish sleeping, even if it's oft-interrupted. I touch the belly often, reminding myself to treat this miracle with the awe it deserves. I'm attempting to appreciate every day it's still just me and The Boy, alone in our room, and trying not to think about how much it feels like I'll miss that. I'm praying it's really as fulfilling and wonderful as everyone says, even as I know in my heart that it will be.