A Season of Warmth and Wait

{from a last minute maternity photo session}

"And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, 

just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction 

that life was beginning over again with the summer." 

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

The days are somehow passing slowly as of late, as feverish, sticky summer days tend to do. Millie pretends to 'cook ice cream cones' in her play kitchen, I've been drinking gallons of mint sweet tea, and Sky washed and waxed the car in the afternoon heat. We've found ourselves knee-deep in the middle of an Illinois June, always looking at the due date scrawled on scratch paper and knowing it's a mere handful of hours or days until there will be another one here with bare feet and a dewy brow.

It's strange to be in this season of lazily spinning ceiling fans at night, sudden thunderstorms breaking afternoon skies, and the smell of hamburgers sizzling on a neighbor's charcoal grill. Everything seems calm and swelteringly still, as if the rest of the world is unaware of the baby's cry about to break the silence. Inside this house, though, every pain that ripples through my stomach to my back makes me wonder if that one is the beginning. Every sharp breath has Sky asking me if I'm all right. In the evenings, I curl up on one side and wonder if the house will be still another night or if the silence will be broken. In the mornings, I wonder if the day will pass like all the others, or if something new will come.

Meanwhile, the small parts of life go on. Sky and I prop pillows up behind us and watch re-runs of old shows (Arrested Development, no less). Millie and I sit on the balcony, eating popsicles that turn our mouths funny colors and blowing bubbles that disappear on the breeze. We cook simple meals that don't require a blazing oven, swat at flies that sneak past the screens, and live the bits of life that don't always make it onto a blog post, like when Millie made her first 'real' picture, waving her watercolor brush and declaring she had painted a tree.

The days begin slowly and end slowly, too. But when my belly jolts against my palm, or tightens up into another contraction, it speeds them up just a little. Everything is being done "the last time before". The last church service as a family of three. The last few meals to cook and pop into the freezer. The last time the back of the car won't be cramped with car seats. The last shopping trip that consists of waddling through the aisles at a turtle's pace.

I lived this life for 25 years before meeting the boy I would marry. I lived it for nearly 26 before meeting my daughter. And I'll have lived it for 28 years before meeting the baby I'll see very soon. It's been such a unexpected journey that has taken me to this place, but I know these humid days of June are the most blessed June days I've ever had in all these years. I'm trying to savor every moment of them now, knowing there will be even more beautiful ones to come.

Let's hear it for the boys

Happy Father's Day

to my dad, who I admire very much, despite his lack of typing/texting/coffee drinking skills.

He's a fire fighter and a veteran, but mostly, I just think of him as the funniest guy I know.

He's been a great father, but also a wonderful grandpa to Millie.

And a Happy Father's Day to Sky.

It's clear how much Millie absolutely adores you,

and I know this baby will love you every bit as much.

I'm so blessed to have these two in my life.

The Before and the After

"Don't be afraid of your fears. They're not there to scare you. 

They're there to let you know that something is worth it." 

— C. JoyBell C.

Sky asked me again if I'd written a new blog post lately. I should want to write. I should want to tell the story of these last couple weeks before a newborn moves in. I'm in such a strange place, though, that I don't even know if I want a record of it. And this isn't really the post I want to write tonight. There are so many other things I would rather say to you (and probably so many you would rather read). But this is my heart's resting place right now, so I would be almost dishonest to say anything else.

Going into this pregnancy, I assumed it would be much easier than the first time around. After all, my body's done all of this before, so it should use some muscle memory or something, right? Other than gaining weight again, it'd be business as usual. I even wrote a post several months ago about how the only differences between this time and last time were small. Well...about that...

I've reached 38 weeks, which should mean I'm getting tired of it all. And physically? Sure. I've been done with it for at least half the pregnancy. This time has been harder than the first time, and not because I have a toddler. I didn't have any Braxton Hicks with Millie; in fact, they seemed like some pregnancy fable to me. Turns out, they're not only real, but some of the articles I've read that say they're just a tight-feeling stomach are wrong. They have hurt, and they've mostly felt like the earlier stages of labor. I've had them since 20 weeks or so, and they've only gotten more frequent and more painful by the week.

I think that's just another reason for where I'm at mentally. I still feel like this. I'm not even a millimeter closer to being more comfortable with everything that's about to happen. For something that is supposed to be so natural, it doesn't feel very natural to brace myself for a hospital visit, labor, unknown complications, or whatever else may come. And with every single Braxton Hicks contraction I have, I'm jolted from denial into remembrance of pain. Every day, it's like a miniature preview of what to expect. It scares me every time, too. Late into the night, I've tried looking up techniques and tips to prepare myself for it. But when I read the suggestions, I roll my eyes at most and end up in frustrated tears by the end, because I think about how useless they all would be in real life. Instead of trying to start labor like I did the first time around, I'm doing all I can to prevent it.

The good bit, of course, is what comes after the fear. I'm grateful that I'm able to separate the two parts. All the babies in Target or at church make me pause and smile lately. Millie loses more and more of her babyhood every day- sometimes it only shows up at night, when she is crumbled into a small, wild shape in her big bed, snoring faintly and looking so peaceful. Sky and I sometimes give her another kiss goodnight before we go to bed, passing the dark and empty nursery on the walk back to our room. It's sinking in that it won't be empty much longer.

Some people say that the pain is forgotten as soon as that newborn is placed in their arms. That just isn't true for me. I'm glad, though, that the part about it all being worth it is actually true.

In fact, that's the biggest understatement of all.

The Best Part

There are secrets- small ones- that I've kept from a couple people, but tonight feels like a good night to let them go.

The picture above is one I've had for a year or two. It was something my mom and I found during one of my visits to Oregon. It was such a sweet, little saying, and we both sighed over it. I think she ending up sneaking to the cash register with it and giving it to me later that day.

But what Sky didn't know is that my mom waited to send me the sign until things were good again. When she got that sign, my marriage was upside down and inside out. It felt beyond repair and beyond recognition. There were few shreds left. When things settled and she did send it to me, it all took another turn not much longer after that. I wrapped up the frame, put it in a box, and shut the closet door...until we moved, that is.

I rediscovered it among all the bubblewrap, and decided it needed a place here.

And what my mom didn't know is what Sky said to me that night, as we were putting up a stack of photos along a bookshelf. As he arranged a photo of us dressed up for the ball, a folded flag from his service in Afghanistan, and that little frame, he commented on how they fit so well together. I blinked and looked at the three, searching for something they had in common, and finally assuming he meant the stars in them all. He shook his head. He reminded me of the way we met- how he was my brother's roommate during that deployment, and had it not been for that deployment, we'd likely have never known each other.

"No," he corrected me, adjusting the frame a little. "When they ask me about the best part of the military, I can say it was you."

Sometimes, things are worth the wait.

June

"Green was the silence, wet was the light,

the month of June trembled like a butterfly." 

— Pablo Neruda

This is the month they tell me you will come. It's going to be a month full of new things and old recollections. Of bright, fluttering beginnings. Of you and I being formally introduced to each other, and you to the world.

I should feel prepared for it all, but I don't- not even close. Even so, I am ready for you. I'm ready to finally know if we'll be dressing you in pink or in blue, if you'll look more like your father or me, and even what your peach fuzz hair will smell like at 4 in the morning. I am so excited to discover who you are.

The days on the calendar are falling to the floor one by one, faster than what I imagined. Daddy and I have a bag packed and sitting next to the door for the moment you're ready. And oh, sweetheart- you have hundreds of people who cannot wait to see your face.

And I most of all.