Tuesday, February 3, 2015

35 weeks.



This will probably be my last post before the baby is born, and in true "my-mind-is-a-jumbled-mess-right-now" form, I'm writing this post in the style of a bulleted brain dump.
  • It's snowing right now. We had a blizzard earlier this week, forcing me to stay indoors and work from home the past couple of days. Murdo and I took a late night walk around the block on Sunday night, when the blizzard was winding down, and we took in the sparkling white silence. Then, on Monday night, we got stuck pulling out of the driveway on the way to the grocery store, and our appreciation for the beauty of snow was quickly replaced with the reminder of how much snow sucks. Later, we got milkshakes, because everyone in the Chicago area right now deserves a milkshake. 
  • The crib is up! The stroller is assembled! Tiny outfits have been washed and dried and hung and folded! There is a little book case in the nursery already stuffed with copies of "Goodnight Moon," "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," "Pat the Bunny." We are far from finished getting ready, but I'm just happy knowing that if our little one gets here tomorrow (dear Baby, please don't decide to get here tomorrow!), at least he'll have a cozy place to sleep. 
  • As of today, I am 35.5 weeks along. I've developed a waddle. I'm seeing a physical therapist to deal with pelvic and back pain. I've ugly-cried at least twice in the past week -- once at work in front of my boss, and once into Murdo's chest in the middle of the nursery. My maternity pants are starting to get too tight. I want to eat more vegetables but I don't have the energy to cook them. I have four and half weeks left, and most of the time, I can't wait to not be pregnant anymore and to finally meet this kid and to start this new part of our lives. 
  • And then he rolls around in my belly, and I remember that there's a little person in there, and this is the closest he will ever be to me and the most I will ever be able to protect him, and every moment with him, from the seconds watching that faint little line appear on a stick until the day I die, should and will be cherished.