So this is what I will do:

I will eat afternoon bowls of sungold tomatoes with Reed.

I will take as many baths as I please.

I will play with Duplos.

I will play.

I will make something delicious.  Often.

I will think about this baby.  Often.

I will take pictures.

I will journal.

I will not hurry.

I will not plan for dinner tomorrow.  Not ever.**

**Note:  After fully coming to terms with the fact that this baby could very well arrive very late, I have come to terms with planning dinner.  I’m in it for the long haul, folks.

Still can’t wrap my head around the fact that one of these days, any day, we will fully be a family of four.  Having kids is a wild, wonderous thing.  I didn’t really know that until I had one of my own.  Some people are born knowing that.  Not me.

Adam is spending these days at his desk finishing up what schoolwork he can before we have a new face among us.  The man works crazy-hard and still manages to be present and pleasant and thoughtful.  I’m crazy-proud of him.  We each have our own little ways of preparing.  I cut flowers and drink tea and take smaller walks and tend what needs to be tended.  I am also eating.  Quite a lot.  Adam says I am carbo-loading.

Meanwhile, while my brain seems to lack the capacity for any meaningful creativity, I have been very keen on learning things.  Time has slowed and I am craving books.  And how did I not hear about Academic Earth until now?

On the night of the day I was 39.0 weeks I began labor with Reed; if the timeline is just the same, that will be tonight.  But I don’t think it will be the same.  I don’t think it will be tonight.  If you want to know my guess, it is Tuesday, but I don’t really mind my guesses.  I’d be trilled to meet this baby any day.  Truth be told, though I am for the most part comfortable (at least if you ask me in the morning), I would be taking long walks and eating spicy food and all of those funny things people do to nudge things along, but I can’t shake the thought that this is not a baby who would like to be rushed.  I want him (her?) to take his time, to live life fully, slowly.  Best to start now.  Best to learn to trust each other.

(But I really am sick of maternity clothes, and I totally don’t feel like cooking next week.)

But then at night.  The sun is long gone and the dishes are done and I hear cars and crickets.  And though my eyelids droop and my feet want to rest, I hesitate a moment in falling asleep.  Because I feel a little flurry of excitement.  This night could be the night.  There is some kind of quiet magic in that possibility.

Did I feel this way last time?  Did I stay up too late lying in bed distracting myself before finally falling asleep in my clothes (too tired to bother with pajamas that don’t fit well anyway)?  Was it because I was happy?  And feeling chatty?  I don’t remember.  And I didn’t write any of it down.  All I remember was buying two bags of heavy pears and carrying them to the car.

Yes, there is a quiet sort of magic.

(It could be tonight, you know.  This, tidy, quiet night could suddenly turn into something completely different.)

-Lindsey

And suddenly, I am comfortable.  I don’t know if is because the temperature dropped or if the baby did or if I am accustom, now, to sitting funny ways and sneaking naps.  But the pager number I scribbled with such urgency last week onto this  page of my planner seems quaint and unnecessary.  No, this week is not the week.

I have no say in the matter- the matter of the time, the matter of the day.  And that is what I am trying to say, I guess.  I am trying to say that I am happy.  And this little one can come when she pleases.  Or can come when he pleases.  I am in no hurry.  I do not mind.  I’m just happy to be along for the ride.

Belly shots are great, but I also want to remember that in these last few weeks, I looked a little unkempt (as I always seem to) and had those first wrinkles forming in the corners of my eyes.  And that the air was hot and my hair got its summer color and its wildness and that my forehead always collected sweat below my bangs.

Dreaming: about going into labor almost every night.  Probably because most nights I really feel like I might go into labor.

Daydreaming: about (oh my goodness) holding this actual baby.  This baby I’ve been getting to know all this time, but have never seen.  Oh, and having the laundry done and the closets cleared.

Eating: second helpings.

Feeling: like a small branch holding a big plum.

Feeling: like putting my feet up.

Feeling: ready, despite the little things yet to get in order.

Feeling: like those little things aren’t very important, really.

Looking: little, like last time.  I never do seem to get my full waddle going.

Loving: a little stack of onsies and two tiny hats.

And most of all-

Hoping: for a healthy baby and a good name.  That’s what really matters, isn’t it?

We don’t know the sex of the baby, and my inklings of a girl are becoming less certain, and my delight in the mystery is becoming more definite.

We have no name for the baby, no one assured name, but our names are whittled down to just those you can fit in the palms of your hands, whittled down in a way that is quite satisfactory and beautiful to me like a walnut walking stick or tiny wooden animals.  We will chose a name when when we hold this baby in our arms.  Until the names will jingle in my pockets, and I will smile at the thought of them.  They are wonderful.

I have just one meal stocked away in the freezer, and doubt that another will be added this week.  How can you think about big batches of freezable meals when hot breezes come through the windows and the garden in squirming its way to ripeness and nothing tastes better than just a bit of this and a bit of that and bread and a hunk of cheese?

Empty freezer or no, I’m becoming friends with this moment.  I’m less tired of being tired, and I am enjoying the charm of bending over in wobbly ways to weed the tomatoes.  And somehow, I find myself becoming more self-assured as a mother.  It feels good.

In one month I will be full term, just less than that, actually.  My time alone with this baby is coming to a close, and I want to use it so well.  I want to write and listen to good songs and eat butter and vegetables until the sun goes down.  I think this child would want it that way.

-lindsey

Two months.  Exactly.  Until the big day.  August 27.  The day.  The due day.  Two months until all of it.  Less than two months, more likely than not- Reed was a week early and this baby seems eager to be out in the world (to me, at least).

Either way, it is close.  It is close, and it is impossible to forget it.  This past week, week 31, things changed in one big swoop (all changes seem to swoop this pregnancy).  Suddenly, I am not in that breezy middle-part-of-pregnancy.  I am at the end.  And I feel it.  I feel it hard.  I need naps.  I have dizzy spells.  I’d like to put my feet up.  I’d rather not walk so far.  I wake at night.  For some reason, I am surprised by these things, surprised , even though looking back on it, it was very similar with Reed.  It just felt different then.  I think I was more ready then to let myself rest than I am now.  I wasn’t running around having adventures with a little boy all day, and I wasn’t trying to keep the tub scrubbed or the floors swept, and I wasn’t trying to rearrange the bedroom again and I didn’t have “projects”.  It is harder for me to remember to take time for myself this time around.  But I am beginning to realize that rest, reflection, and care are more important than anything I have on the “To-Do Before Baby” list.  How can I prepare my home if I can’t prepare my own spirit?

(It’s a balance, of course.  When Reed was born, the house was a disaster, but I was right and ready: heart, body, soul.  This time I seem to be swinging the opposite direction.  What I want is to be a little bit of both.  And I want to remember what is really important, and what lasts.)

Two months, everyone.  Two months.  Where has the time gone?

I have been lost in Jane Eyre (can you believe I had never read it?) and settling into our summer routine: morning work and play, midday retreat to books, little lessons and a shady house, quiet afternoon naps, and small walks when the sun gets low.  We have been eating lots of muesli (recipe to come, I hope!), and I can’t ever get quite enough iced peppermint tea.  Reed is learning new words by the minute, and I delight in every request and expression.  I delight in hearing him ask for “egghs” and “ohgur” in the morning and a “hug” when he is at the top of the stairs and feeling too lazy to crawl down himself (it’s easy to say no when he asks to be picked up, but a hug?  how can one say no to a hug?).

Last night I dreamed that in just two weeks I would be full term with my second born.  We aren’t quite to that point, yet, but I have both feet solidly in the third trimester, now (?!), and my belly seems to have bloomed while I was looking the other direction.  It is going fast.  It is going so fast.  But meantime, I feel we are becoming better acquainted, this new little one and I.  Her (his?) wiggles have become more settled and steady.  Names are being narrowed down.  And still, he (she?) is something of a mystery to me.  And I think that suits us.  I really do.  I want to meet her (him?) all the more.

Last year our walks were long.  I planned our routes along the hills to get my blood moving and my legs feeling strong and long.  I liked the shady hills best- the ones by the river and the brick houses and big trees.  We could walk forever.

This spring we avoid the hills.  I have no interest in strong legs or moving blood.  We walk the low, marshy path.  Reed bores of it after twenty minutes and goes off into his imagination (you can tell because he converses with himself using two or three different voices).  And then he bores of that and begins to futz with the stroller, pulling the shade down over his head, dragging his shoe over the wheel.  And my belly feels clunky and achy long before I feel invigorated by a “good, long, walk.”

I realize, now, that our walks will never look the same from year to year.  Long gone are those first, autumn walks where Reed slept  wrapped against my chest and I stroked his tiny head and let my mind wander where it would.  And gone are the walks where little hands reached out to touch the first leaves and flowers, and I could tell the baby boy about those leaves and flowers, and he would listen and watch it all with care.  But there is something quite right about this fleeting world, something good.  And I hope I am right there in it.  Not anywhere else.