Two and a half weeks to go. Or, four and a half, should things advance a little, ah, slowly.
One would think that I’d have all kinds of time for blogging, now that I’m officially on Maternity Leave, but it seems that Free Time does not necessarily equal Excellent Fodder for Blogging. It seems strange, I know, but I assure you – it’s true.
I could tell you about how I finished knitting that baby blanket that I started three months ago; I could promise photos and then fail to deliver. Or I could tell you about getting the crib all set up, with clean sheets and everything, and about how weird it felt to fold a mountain of onesies that smell like extra-gentle laundry soap. How clean everything looks! (But how long will it honestly stay that way?)
I could tell you about the new cookbook I just got for my birthday, and about the excellent steamed broccoli we ate for dinner, borrowed from the cookbook’s uncreased, unstained pages (again, how long is it likely to stay that way?). I could get teary-eyed and sentimental and talk about new phases of life, or teary-eyed and self-conscious and tell you about my tendency to bump, ungracefully, into everything.
In as breathless a voice as one can manage over a keyboard, I might stammer on about how excited we are about the baby and how nervous I am about the change and about how my response to everything right now
seems to be one part enthusiasm to one part anxiety. I could mention prayer, and how that helps, and how I need it right now.
Or I could tell you about my friends Anna and Melanie, who arrived on my porch today with a henna kit in hand. For the next hour they decorated my belly with vines and leaves, dots and small birds, passing the bottle of henna back and forth between the two of them and conferring on the design that I could only barely see. When they took a picture to show me their progress, though, it was gorgeous: a curling, eucylyptus-scented celebration of my belly and of the baby (who contributed plenty of kicks and shiftings, in an attempt, I’m sure, to keep the artists’ jobs lively). Hopefully, the baby will be born by the time those hennaed lines fade.
I could tell you how strange that thought is, but I’m sure you can guess.