Waiting, waiting, waiting

Little Z has been angelic these days. He pats my tummy. “Budder?” He pats the birth tub bag resting on the couch in the living room. “Budder?” He pushes his chair up to the sink while I wash dishes to frantically stick a spoon, a cup, anything under the waterfall before I shut it off. He teaches me daily of words that I never thought of sounding similar (“Come on” and “Gramma”; “Bug,” “Book,” and “Buck”; “Bucket,” “Blanket”, and “Break it”). He likes “toe-toes” (tomatoes) now, but mostly because of the salt–a trait he inherited from me, I’m afraid. His favorite activities include singing “Happy Birthday to to” while holding a plastic Lego candle and singing “Yes, Jesus…” those are the words to both of those songs, by the way, and not typos. Running back and forth between Mommy and Daddy to give “hogs” is also a favored pastime. Putting away toys in the evening is not a favored activity, but helping Mommy by throwing away “tash” in the garbage can is. Being chased is always fun too, especially around the car when were about to go somewhere.

I remind myself to enjoy these last days with one child under my wing and the other safely tucked away in my belly, but gracious, it’s hard. It’s hard to never sleep soundly and always have to run to the bathroom “one last time.” It’s hard to have a perpetually aching back. It’s hard not to feel crampy and have my first thought be “maybe these are the first contractions!” or not to try all the home inducement methods you’ve ever heard of (I’ve been overindulging in dates and red raspberry leaf tea these days). It’s hard to have everything in the house ready for baby–except your own body evidently–and be powerless to make labor happen.

Mr. N reminds me that having a newborn and a 22 month old will be hard too.

It will, I have no doubt. But I haven’t witnessed that sort of hard yet, so it feels distant, like an earthquake on the opposite side of the world.

And if Little Z continues to be as sweet as he has been the past few days, it may not be as hard as an earthquake.

But I have no doubt that he won’t. All of my reliable mom sources assure me that when baby comes, big sibling gets jealous, attention-seeking, and plain ornery.

So I guess I’ll cling on to today’s hard and try to be grateful when I can’t see–let alone–touch my toes. Or when I wash dishes and am constantly rubbing my sore belly button on the edge of the sink.

Little Z and I get the stroller and go for a morning walk waddle each day that the weather permits. Each day, when I come back up the big hill to the shop, breathing hard and damp with sweat, I can’t resist the thought: “Maybe that hill is going to be the thing that starts off contractions!”

But it never does. But I keep waddling and hoping, bumping into the countertops and praying for a safe delivery, thinking about how beautiful and stretching (and stretch-marking) and difficult waiting can be.

Maybe next time I write, I’ll have a baby snuggled in my lap.

One can always hope.