Nine days left of sleep, of flitting around with one small purse, of having a Fisher-Price plastic-free house, of calm restaurant dining, of beautiful uninterrupted showers and movies and books. Of spontaneous coffee dates and weekend trips. No sticky fingers or nursing bras or soccer practices or feeding schedules or ear infections or preschool applications. For nine more days.
Greg was out of town last week, and as I woke up every day I thought, "This is one of the last mornings I'll ever have to myself." Okay - maybe forever is stretching it. But how unfathomable that my life - and I say MINE with the fervor of a two-year-old clutching her favorite toy - is about to become all about... not me.
On the cusp of parenthood, it's far easier to envision the loss of things known than to imagine the addition of the great unknown. Maybe Confessions of a Selfish Mommy would be a better name for this blog.
Truthfully, I'm very excited about Baby C's impending arrival. We've waited for years to say "Nine days left!" When conception wasn't quite as forthcoming as all those health class videos would have one believe, I grew wary of celebrating too early. So, nine days out, saying I'm downright thrilled seems like tempting the gods. Better to throw them off-scent with lamentations about broken sleep and sticky upholstery. And Diaper Genies. And nasal aspirators. That should do it.