The waiting. The painful, bad-cramp-like Braxton-Hicks that are not labor, never will be labor, but last for ours and hurt anyway (whoever said that the worst B-Hs are only ‘mildly uncomfortable’ lied. Either that, or I have a very different body than most women.) Staring down the halls of time at four long, incredibly uncomfortable weeks. Looking at my freezer and wishing there was room for just ONE MORE MEAL so that I could have something to do with my impatience. Gritting my teeth as I explain to everyone at church, again and again, that, “No, I am not due yet. Yes, I know I look huge, but I still have a month to go. Don’t faint when you hear it. I promise I am more overwhelmed by that fact than you are.” Wishing I could eat, so this baby could grow (I’m measuring about 3 weeks small!). Praying he grows anyway, because heartburn is not food-friendly. Wondering if it would be possible to trade bodies with my husband for just one night, so that I could sleep? Wondering, what will this baby look like and who will he be? Every twinge of pain reminding me of the monumental task that awaits before Hobble the Second gets hear. Praying, with every waking moment, for peace in this time, for trust in the Lord’s timing and my body’s ability to labor, for joy in these last days with just the three of us.
I had forgotten it was like this.