My head is full of dreams of you. How and when you’ll arrive and turn our world upside down. What life will look like when you’re finally here. What kind of niche you’ll carve out for yourself. How you’ll look and smell and smile and undoubtedly steal my heart.
And then a part of me hesitates– are we crazy? Are we really capable of being responsible for not one, but two human beings? The answer to that question doesn’t really matter at this point, so we’ll just cross our fingers and figure it out. Is that what everyone else is doing? I kind of hope so.
I am not wired to handle the last few weeks of pregnancy. I am a planner. I am a maker of lists and my Google Calendar is a color-coded work of art. The fact that you could be in my arms as soon as tomorrow or in the small eternity of thirty days is going to make me lose my mind.
But then I stop. I remind myself how fortunate I am to have these worries in the first place, because it means that my body is capable of creating and sustaining life. How amazing is that?
And so we wait. We wait through uncertainty and insomnia and hip/back/everywhere pain and try our best to remain thankful above everything else because, sometime in the next thirty days, we’ll meet you, our next great adventure. And all of this other stuff? It will have been so, so worth it.