My tiny human is set to make his or her debut into the world in eight days, and I'm not sure what to do with myself. I'm just getting used to the idea of being pregnant, I've finally felt my first real contraction and I'm pretty sure this baby has dropped even lower because I now feel like someone has punched me in the vagina.
I still wouldn't consider myself uncomfortable, but my body definitely knows something is up and the end is near.
Like eight days near.
Thanks to the expertise of my mother and a quick trip to Target, he hospital bag is almost completely packed and my nesting frenzy has slowed to a lull. The nursery is almost finished, but I'm still waiting on that last piece of furniture to show up at the second hand store so I can snag it and add it to the room, and due to my own unusual procrastination earlier on it doesn't look like the bumper and crib skirt will be complete until after the baby arrives.
So my biggest decision at the moment lies at wether or not to take pictures of the nursery now, or wait until it's completely finished to share.
It's a big deal, I know.
Normally, I'd be hyperventilating at the lack of a completed nursery posted on my blog in pictures at this point, so I'm not sure what has come over me. Maybe I'm in denial that I really am almost done baking this little love, or I'm just finally learning to loosen up a little because my world is about to get turned upside down, and now is the time to learn to accept the inevitable.
I couldn't sleep last night, so I sat in the nursery instead. I looked around at the scenery and rocked back and forth in the plush chair that was my very first baby shower gift, soaking in the combination of minor and major details that had been stored in my head for the last four years, but had just recently found their way out to become a true part of my reality, via the form of my little one's nest.
And amidst the mindless rocking, I somehow managed to drift back to a day not so long ago when I got the call that my cousin was very close to delivering her second baby. I vividly remember the picture that formed in my head at that very moment, it was almost as if I was watching her in a movie; pacing back in forth in front of the baby's crib, holding her rounded stomach and gathering last minute items to take to the hospital.
I remember feeling a sudden pang of jealousy accompany my excitement for her as I realized that I may never get to experience that moment. We already had two failed IUI's and three failed IVF's looming overhead, and the possibility of a biological child seemed so very far away from my reality that it hurt to breathe.
And yet there I was last night-less than a year later-rocking in my very own nursery for my very own tiny human and holding my very own rounded stomach as I felt the life inside of me shift and reposition, staring blankly at my almost finished hospital bag and trying to soak it all in.
I sat in that chair for a good forty-five minutes and just rocked.
I tried desperately to picture a tiny miracle inside of my bumper-less crib, forcing an inclination of wether my newest love was a little man or sweet girl, but it just wasn't happening. I wondered if my low dresser and changing table combination was functional enough to work in the absence of the taller dresser I'm waiting on, and if the basket I chose for the books was large enough. I became angry again at the mailman for placing my newborn cloth diapers in the box with the key that's too rusted to open it-leaving me unable to receive my long awaited package-and considered the possibility that our crib sheet was the wrong shade of ecru.
I talked to God about showing me how to be the mother He wants me to be, patient, kind, full of unconditional love and wisdom to raise a child in this upside down world; and asked Him to keep me sane in labor, patient in the impending long nights, strong in faith and always grateful for this miracle.
And then I worried that I'd deliver a baby too large to even need newborn sized cloth diapers, pondered again which monitor I should purchase, realized frantically that we still haven't agreed on a boy name yet and wondered what in the world was making that ticking noise under the rocking chair.
Eventually, I was able to shut off my mind and settle my thoughts for the night. It's always a comfort to know that statistics show that first time Caucasian mothers tend to deliver past their due dates anyway, so I very well may have more time to complete my tasks than the calender really says.
But I'm still a ticking time bomb.
Unless I refuse the internal tomorrow, we'll see how much progression has been made-if any-and we'll be exactly one week from the date that's been permanently etched into my brain for the last eight months.
I know it's the wedding date of Prince William and Kate-because they just had to steal my thunder-but that's not why I remember it.
I remember it because it's the ending date that my heavily medicated and ferociously probed uterus was given for withholding our medical miracle. And while I completely understand that babies come on God's timeline-and not that of a doctor and his predictions-it's still a pretty good indication that my little one is done baking and will eventually come out.
And my life will change forever.
Even though I'm still having a difficult time comprehending the reality of what the next few weeks will hold, my forever infertile mind has finally just begun to accept the the excitement to come. I've waited for these moments for what feels like a lifetime, and I love the uncertainty of it all; the possibilities of how my tiny human will enter into this world are unique and only the Lord knows how all of the details will play out, and for once in my life, the suspense of the unknown actually thrills me.
Sooner than I realize, I will be looking into the eyes of my very own baby doll; and I have to believe that in that very moment, everything will make perfect sense.
But until then I'll just tick away, waiting for that new beginning.
"We are nearing the end of quite a fantastic voyage."