in love with now & desperate for tomorrow

I have been quiet lately, haven't I? This moment is so strange, this hovering on the edge of something difficult, wonderful, and oh-so-very different. I am standing with my toes hanging dangerously over the abyss, yet I am not in charge of determining when the great leap shall be made. How odd to know that a new person is about to saunter onto the stage, and never leave it. I have no idea who she is, but I know I will love her desperately for my whole life.

Bizarre, I tell you.

But this week of waiting has been sweet, sweet. Frances is on her midwinter break from school - something I have been complaining about loudly to anyone who will listen (Whoever heard of midwinter break! And spring break a month away...!) - but now that it is nearly over I am grateful for the timing. I'm lucky to have work that is flexible and that I have been slowly scaling back in preparation for a maternity leave. The child care issues were minimally stressful. Mostly I've been able to enjoy rare mornings with Frances while her brother is in school and long lazy afternoons the likes of which haven't been seen since the summer: playing with friends, reading a ton, baking, and watching The Sound of Music projected on our playroom wall.

It's not quite as harmonious as the Von Trapp family singers - changes in routine and this whole baby thing have us all on edge at times - but it is good. I find myself utterly besotted with my family as it is right now, in this perfect still moment. When the four of us are reading on the couch after dinner, when the children are guffawing conspiratorially with some adorably innocent secret naughtiness, when Gabriel floats on his back and sings in the bathtub, when Frances walks the whole way home from the library reading her newest book in utter absorption - I am smitten. I am awash in love for them. I can barely stand it.

So that is part of the strangeness, the quiet I am feeling just now. Anticipating change, my heart is impossibly tender towards the family that we are today. Yet with every shift and turn in my belly, I am positively desperate to meet this babe and welcome her into our fold. Like countless very pregnant women in every time and place, the waiting is wearing on me.

Oh! I love now. I can't wait for now to change forever.

getting real

Yesterday began with a curious tearful melt-down (Gabriel: Mama, the syrup is touching the pancakes!! sob sob sob...) and continued with many more tears, tantrums, refusals to cooperate, sibling-baiting, time outs, and odd complaints pulled from the air (Me: It's time to go to school, do you have your homework packed? Frances: Mama, why do I have to have a summer birthday? I HATE having a summer birthday. Let me tell you the eight reasons why...). Even though I worked half the day alongside adults, by the time Mike and I were cleaning up after dinner I was completely exhausted and ready to strangle both children. They were relentless, I tell you. Everything remotely frustrating, bad, or disappointing in their universe was my fault.

There were so many moments over the course of the day that I could do nothing more than endure. Unsalvageable nadirs of parenting. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking this must all have something to do with the baby's imminent arrival. On Tuesday I brought the kids with me to see the midwife who, upon hearing some of my symptoms and discovering I am 1 cm dilated, gave me a very hard time about the fact that we didn't yet have a bag packed. Or a clear plan for what to do with the kids. "A third kid can make or break a family," she told me with unforgiving firmness. "You need to get organized."

So the kids watched, or at least were dimly aware of, the flurry of activity that followed that appointment. They may have noticed that Mike has not left the house since without casually reminding me to call him if I'm going to have a baby.

At bedtime Frances seemed just as off as she had all day (after a monstrous post-dinner Clean Up Time) so I exhaled, climbed into bed next to her, and asked if she was worried about me or the baby.

"Not like, worried you'll die. But maybe you'll get really sick or hurt, and then you won't be able to talk care of me anymore ... actually, I think no matter what you won't be able to take care of me for about the next six years."

The worries came out in a flood then: how she won't be special anymore because she won't be the only daughter, how I won't have time to spend with her, how adults will only want to pay attention to the baby ("and just say dumb things to me like Isn't it nice to be a big sister!"), how I won't do things like make her snacks and help with her homework anymore. Which, apparently, I don't do often enough as it is.

I flashed back to a day in Lancaster almost five years ago. I was leaning over the tub, giving two-year-old Frances her bath. She was chattering about what we could give to the baby, until she got very quiet, and I noticed her lower lip was trembling (the tell-tale sign of deep sorrow that she still manifests, and still causes tears to spring to my eyes before I even know the cause of her sadness). Then she asked if she would have to give the baby her special blue and green socks too, and started to cry.

I picked her up right then and wrapped her up tight, and told her those socks were just for her. I still have them saved in a box, though Frances doesn't remember them or understand why a dirty worn pair of socks is tucked away alongside special mementos and tiny hand knit sweaters.

We talked last night for a long time. I tried to be honest with her about the big changes, and listen, and emphasize the unconditional boundless love that surrounds her and always will. And then, my daughter - the one whom (many of you know from experience) can talk without seeming to breath or blink for hours on end - rolled towards me and peacefully said good night. It may have been the first time she has ever initiated the end of the day.

I couldn't help but notice her sweetness this morning, and the relative calm with which she made it to school and walked into her classroom. Exhale, exhale, exhale.

easy street

Normally I see clients on Tuesday mornings, but between a natural tending-towards-maternity-leave lightening of the schedule and a couple of people who have recently switched to every other week, I realized as I made lunches this morning that I didn't need to go in to the counseling center. Four delicious, unscheduled hours stretched before me. All to myself!

Under normal circumstances I probably would have easily filled those hours with all the chores and errands and nesting tasks that periodically weigh on me in their un-addressed state: sorting baby hand-me-downs, finishing work odds and ends, cleaning the bathroom, catching up on email, changing the kids' sheets (I do not even know how long the current set has been in use...! I justify it with the thought that the kids tend to bed hop, and with the bunk beds in the rotation, maybe the sheets are half as icky as they might otherwise be...?). But first, after drop off, I used the last visit on my punch card at the Rec Center, baring my belly a bit sheepishly on the elliptical machine.

I got home and turned on the shower, intending to rinse off quickly and Get Down to Business. But then it was so very nice and steamy in there, and I had the realization that there are precious few anxiety-free showers, taken on my own terms, left before the baby arrives. The era of showering at leisure is coming to a close. And suddenly the whole morning and its purpose shifted.

I made a big cup of decaf and situated myself next to a couple of loads of laundry that needed folding, to give the semblance of productivity. Then I streamed the latest episode of Downton Abbey on the PBS website. At 10:30 in the morning! Can you stand it?! Watching that show is like eating cake. Really, really good cake. Even when you're crying (and believe me, I was), it goes down so very pleasantly.

I declined to volunteer to do some work items. I fussed around on my new laptop. I ate half a Trader Joe's dark chocolate bar. You get the idea. It was all extremely non-productive and leisurely, the time flew by, and before I knew it I had to pick up Gabriel. The weather was strangely springlike, warm and sunny, and we spent time outside without coats and then made paper pirate dolls. After we picked up Frances, played at her school in the sunshine with friends, and arrived home, instead of enforcing homework-doing or piano-practicing, I crawled under a blanket on the couch and announced I would be reading Harry Potter now.

It was just one of those days. Between this bowling ball of a baby head wedged into my pelvis, the gorgeous weather, and the anticipation of a vulnerable tiny new person in our family, I'm taking the path of least resistance. The sheets will get changed eventually. Just not today. 

hurt head, hurt heart

My mom and her four month old puppy were visiting this weekend. After some initial rocky moments (mostly involving the dog trying to eat various treasured possessions, and a bit too much nipping when he was younger), mutual affection has been established between the kids and the dog. I do believe the many wild games of Dog Soccer in the backyard sealed the deal.

Last night the kids and the dog were a bit more worn out than usual, having run each other around all day long and then ended it all with a rousing Taco Sunday (which - oh my -  featured the Smitten Kitchen apple cake with salted caramel gelato for the dessert). Amidst the clatter of dishes and the sound of running water, hunting down Gabriel for his bath proved a challenge. I looked all over the place for him, opening doors and peeking my head in, calling his name. I heard him yelling for privacy just as I opened his bedroom door but didn't react fast enough, and my head was stuck in just far enough to see him barreling towards me with both hands outstretched to slam the door shut. Which he did, with my head still between the frame and the door.

I think I screamed. Or yelled. It was a stunning pain, and I stumbled backwards, holding either side of my head, listening to Gabriel cry and yell incoherently about how he tried to tell me he needed privacy, and why did I come in, and why why why Mama? I knew I was scaring him, because I was having a hard time pulling myself together. I finally looked up and saw him clad in pajamas pants, the day's striped t-shirt, and a pajama shirt still stuck like a lion's mane around his dear, enormous head. His face was red and tears were streaming down it. I put it together: he was trying to surprise us by getting his pajamas on by himself, without being asked. Not only had I ruined his surprise, but I had found him in an embarrassing moment of dressing/undressing confusion: the clothes had not come off first, and now he was stuck dealing with two tops, one of which he couldn't dislodge from his head. And to seal the deal, in the midst of all this, the poor boy had to grapple with the fact of having given his mother a serious head injury.

So he cried. And sputtered.  The water was still running. I lowered myself onto the edge of the tub, beginning to cry myself, and beckoned him into the bathroom. I said, tell me you're sorry you hurt my head.

I'm sorry Mama. (sob, sob, choke). But you really hurt my feelings!

Yes. And you really hurt my head!

More tears, from both of us. The floodgates opened and we couldn't stop. I started to undress Gabriel and we kept on crying. I turned the water off; the sudden quiet slowed us down a bit.

This is getting silly, I said through my tears.

Yeah,  said Gabriel. We should stop crying or we'll be crying all night!!

So we managed to stop, though I felt the tears inside me, so many more, still desperate to get out. I fought them back, just as I fought the strange urge to bury my head on Gabriel's shoulder and let him comfort me. Not what a four year old needs.

But he knew. Finally settled in the tub and calm, Gabriel looked up and said, I know, Mama. You get in the tub with me and we'll ask Papa to give us our bath!

This sweetness nearly knocked me over, this recognition of my need to not be the one taking care of others just then, my vulnerability, the intimacy that our shared tears had brought on. Later I tried to tell Mike about it all and started crying all over again. It was a bit bewildering, until I realized that it had nothing to do with a hurt head, but really with the grief that has been sneaking up on me as my due date approaches. Gabriel will still be my baby, but he won't be The Baby. Everything will change.

Tonight Frances asked if I would snuggle in bed with her instead of let her read quietly for few minutes before lights out. I got in next to her and she burrowed down next to my big belly, feeling the baby move against her skinny arms.

Mama. When the baby comes we won't be our happy family of four anymore.

It's true. We're all feeling it, I guess. It's scary to draw closer to an imminent, irreversible change. We'll soon be a happy family of five, I am certain, but saying goodbye to this sweet chapter in order to turn the page and discover how the next begins...? My heart is full, so full it hurts.