Yesterday marked the beginning of the one-month countdown to baby delivery time. That should seem pretty scary. And honestly, sometimes the thought, “Holy crap, I’m going to have a baby in less than a month,” crosses my mind, and my body’s flight or fight instinct takes over.
My heart pounds. My brain bleats in panic. And I start searching anywhere and everywhere for a responsible adult to take charge. Then I remember, I’m supposed to be the grown-up now.
Which pushes me straight into “I want my mommy” mode.
But she’s seven hours away. Of course, I know if I were to call her up and start howling in her ear, she’d panic and show up at my door in approximately 7.5 hours—faster if sheer force of will could propel her there.
Fortunately, so far, I’ve resisted the urge.
The good news is that these moods are the exception rather than the rule. More often, I find myself getting all warm and fuzzy at the thought of actually meeting my baby. I’ll sit in the big recliner we moved into her room and imagine curling up there with her in my arms. Or I’ll go through her closet, trying to picture an actual baby in those tiny doll clothes. I’ll play with her music box, re-fold her onesies, smooth the sheet in her crib…all with a goofy smile on my face.
I can’t wait to stroll around the neighborhood on warm spring evenings with her, my husband and our dog—our family finally complete.
I look forward to working in my garden, chattering to her as I show her the latest flowers.
Heck, I’m even excited to have company when I’m awake at 3:30 in the morning, marveling at how quiet the world is.
As my husband recently remarked, “Even though she’s not here yet, I can’t imagine our lives without her now.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.