Tomorrow I hit the infamous 35/35; thirty-five weeks pregnant with only thirty-five days remaining before my not-so-tiny-anymore human is expected to make his or her debut into this world, and I have no idea how I got here.
Well, I know it had a little something to do with a petri dish and everything to do with God's perfect timing, but I'm talking more about my constant inability to comprehend how blessed I truly am to not only be pregnant with my own biological child, but to be nearing the end of such an amazing journey and about to begin an even greater one.
Goodness, just saying that still gives me the chills.
My second baby shower is this weekend, and I've begun preparation to exit the working world for three months by way of reorganizing, making lists, and cleaning the bathroom. But the entire time I'm dancing around the office of our family business tying up loose ends, I feel like I'm living someone else's life.
My belly button is still in, I can still shave my legs, and daily workouts still feel good. But before the above is precieved as bragging, know that breathing is finally proving difficult when I bend over, I now wake up several times a night and literally roll out of bed to relieve my bladder, and braxton hicks contractions throughout the day are awkwardly helping to ready my insides for the arrival of labor.
And though I'm pretty sure I should have by this point, I still haven't entered nest mode, which is proving to be a problem all of its own.
We still haven't agreed on names.
And as for the nursery, I have yet to make the crib bumper, skirt, touch up holes and choose curtain fabric; but at least our dear friend-the-doppler-renter will be in town this weekend to finish up the wall mural and rumor has it that I may even be getting my custom painted canvas wall art as a gift for my shower this weekend.
So if I could only kick this new found procrastination habit-this odd, backwards nesting sort of behavior-then maybe I'll be able to share my little miracles' nest with the world before he or she arrives.
I hope this isn't a sign of what's to come. Because the old me-the not pregnant me-would have had the nursery completed before anyone even knew I was pregnant; along with names picked out, my hospital bag packed, and my entire duplex re-organized and deep cleaned about three months ago.
I'm not a complete mess though, because a pediatrician has been chosen, maternity photos have been taken, my cloth diaper stash is growing and birth classes are almost complete. And as crazy as it sounds, I'm more excited than ever to experience every second of a natural labor, even after watching numerous graphic videos of ladies from the seventy's screaming and writhing in pain while they labor in strange positions, making strange noises, with strange hair.
I don't care what anyone tells me, as long as the Lord allows me time to do so, I will be showered, shaved, and in full makeup. I will do everything in my power not to make awful moaning noises and I absolutely refuse to have a bowel movement while pushing.
I'm just saying.
So as I sit here, stuck somewhere between wanting to meet my newest love and denying the fact that next month may hold the birthday of my first child, I'm praising God for allowing me this privilege. There is nothing more precious to me than feeling a miracle move in my uterus, struggling to put on my shoes, stressing over the perfect shower apparel, and debating weather or not to purchase an enema against my doctors wishes in preparation for child birth.
I'll never get this time back, because there is no rewind button in life, no way to stop the beautiful madness and chaos that surrounds me at this very moment; so instead I must constantly remind myself to look around and soak it all up before it's over. The anticipation of not knowing the gender of my child, the fear and excitement that accompanies thoughts of being a mother and eternally responsible for shepherding my child's heart, sweet time spent alone with my husband before our relationship changes forever, and the innocents of my last few free weeks as a selfish, self centered individual are nearing an end.
I feel larger and more clumsy than I ever have, but I also feel oddly beautiful as I revel in pride in completing what God made my body to do. I feel overwhelmed, out of control and inconsistent, but for the first time in my life it doesn't really matter because there is life in my uterus. I find sadness in the absence of strangers commenting on and touching my belly that I've waited years to grow, but joy in the lack of stretch marks and discomfort that come with a truly ginormous midsection.
I'm terrified to be a mother, but more ready than ever to have a child.
During a time in my life when so much is uncertain, all I really know for sure is that while infertility is awful, God has blessed me and pregnancy is blissful; and being here is worth every tear, every shot, every penny that it cost, even if it leaves me feeling uncharacteristically bipolar with it's roller coaster of emotions and unanswered questions.
But while I stand in the midst of joy and pain at the closing of this chapter I've waited so very long to be a part of, I know God's already started on the next one, and something tells me it's going to be worth reading.
Maybe even a best seller.
So I'll pray away my fears, and allow God to calm the storm inside as I ask Him to grow me into the mother He would have me to be, even if that involves disorganized chaos, an unfinished nursery and strange moaning noises in the labor room.
Because He's a much better author anyway.
"There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud."