I vacillated between two extremes in the last weeks of my pregnancy: complete apathy and psychotic nesting. I must give credit to my husband during this time. Where I fell down on the job, he stepped up in such a huge way. The first time around, I had the ability to nap whenever I wanted, but now that we already have one kid and with another due any minute now, the idea of sleeping one second longer than my son will allow is a pipe dream I let go of with claw marks all over it.
Still, trying to tie up all the loose ends I could before the baby comes is an impossibility because there’s a lot of things I can’t predict. Instead, I’ve spent too much time conjuring what the realistic outcomes might be so that I can activate the phone tree depending on what time of day my water breaks. I’ve written a so-called birth plan (which is to say I have written an email to my friend who’s going to be my birth partner so my husband can take care of our son).
The house is in some sort of order, but so much still feels undone. I’m trying to remember where all the burp cloths went, and figured that as each one became too gross to toss in the wash, we must’ve just thrown them away. I’m trying to get appointments scheduled before the end, but I feel like I’m missing something.
We did manage to get most of what I wanted to do checked off activity wise. We took my son to the beach twice this summer. We made our trip to Disney in the spring. We had a chance to see the light show at Longwood Gardens. We got our fill of crabs before the season ended. But I am still left wondering what I forgot. Maybe it’s just that feeling that you never really check everything off the list, you just get to do whatever life lets you before it comes crashing down on you. And the rest is for the aftermath.