a letter to my very pregnant self.

Dear Casey,

I don’t want to be all “I told you so,” but really, you should have written this post as it was intended three days ago when you woke up from a dead sleep thinking about it. Now things have changed, there has been an emotional shift in your very existence and that letter you wanted to write yourself? Won’t be the same now. But instead of I told you so I’ll do the best with what you’ve left me with.

This baby thing is going to be hard the second time around. Six and a half years is plenty of time to forget about newborns, diapers, strollers, feeding schedules and naps. Not to mention the whole breastfeeding thing. Do you even remember how often babies have to go to the doctor? Or the crying? I’m not sure you do. But regardless you have been losing sleep over the excitement and joy of holding that tiny little baby in your arms. You have spent hours in Mozzi’s room rocking in that old yellow chair thinking about how long it’s been since someone has fallen asleep in your arms.  Your mind gets lost when you think about sniffing a warm, fuzzy little head and the anticipation of those tiny contented baby sighs? Better than Christmas. There was even a moment during the hospital tour where you got so excited about what’s going to happen that you actually had to squelch a squee.

You’ve done an awfully good job at enjoying every moment Mozzi has spent in you. I know you’re sad she has to vacate the premises, but there’s two other people that live with you who can’t wait to hang out with her too. You’re going to have to share sometime, and sometime is coming soon.

Which is where the emotional shift has happened.

This is really happening. Sunday you’ll be full term and so many worries that plague pregnant women will be behind you. It’s really all down the birth canal from here. There is going to be blood. There is going to be pain. There are going to be tears. There is going to be an adjustment period. There are going to be quarrels in the name of exhaustion. I know Cody doesn’t want to you to get all bent out of shape about any of it because things ARE going to be different this time. But at the same time I understand how you work. You need to feel out those worst case scenarios…contingency plans. They’re how you roll. They’re how you survived law school, lupron, depression, infertility and parenthood the first time around.

I have to say I am so proud of you for taking care of yourself. Yes, you lost a lot of friends in the process, but you had to take care of you. You took naps when you needed them. You have never felt guilty for going to bed early or taking a long bath when you hurt. You ate what you wanted to when you needed to and you even managed to gag down those prenatal vitamins. Even more importantly? You asked for, and got help when you needed it most. You are happy today because you have taken care of yourself and allowed others to take care of you over these last 36 weeks.

The perfect balance of appreciation and self preservation.

Finally, the latest and greatest of your worries. That man you’re married to. I know you feel as though you just got him back, that you guys finally figured this marriage thing out and now you’re going to have to share him with not one but two other ladies. He loves you so much. I would guess it’s natural to fear and question if your relationship will ever be the same, there’s some rough months ahead for you two, full of sleepless nights and leaky boobs. But you’ve already made it through so much. I know the reason you’re so scared is because you love him so much it hurts. He’s yours, for time and all eternity. Like he said today, he’s not going anywhere, and even more importantly, school is over. (Psst, Cody! Casey’s favorite flowers are peonies. Buy her some when they come in season, okay? Thanks.)

Keep taking care of yourself. This will all go by so quickly. Don’t roll your eyes at me. You know I’m right. Nipples can only stay bloody for so long. There will again come a day when all of your laundry will be folded and put away. One day you will even get to sleep in. Or shower. Or nap.

It’s going to be hard, but good hell if it isn’t going to be worth it.

we were waiting for cody. we got bored.

xoxo- yourself.

twenty eight.

43.5 inches.

That is the circumference of my waist this evening.

4 weeks from my due date with my second baby.

28 days.

A period.

I used to live my life in 28 day increments.

I am 28 years old. My birthday is on the 28th of April.

This year was my golden birthday.

Golden indeed.

I said it was going to be good and good it was.

There is even a chance it will end with me having my long awaited baby on the last day of my golden year.

(But I’d really rather that not happen, no offense, I really don’t want to share.)

I have been craving watermelon and Mexican food.

I have spent the last week nesting. And not just “kind of” nesting. But serious down to business there may be chapter about this being a problem type nesting in the back of some pregnancy book nesting. It happened with Addie too. Two weeks ago I was happy to be somewhere soft and horizontal and at 4 am Monday morning suddenly EVERYTHING needed to be done RIGHT NOW.

My very existence has been overtaken with parallel vacuum lines and perfectly dusted baseboards.

I had an astronomical to do list tapped out on my iPod on Monday morning. I checked off the final thing last night.

Pack a bag for the hospital.

Because I’m going to be having a baby. Any day now really.

I am so happy. So excited.

But there is still this lump. This phantom pain in the back of my heart.

While it seems as though everyone drank from the same fountain of fertility and found themselves pregnant, I know this isn’t true. I know because there are women left without their babies. Babies they are waiting for. Longing for. Desperate for. I know many of them are staying quiet, back in the shadows because their pain is all to real, and very much at the forefront of their mind.

They’re living their own 28 day trial right now, be it pregnancy tests, adoption papers, medical exams or results.

Every time Mozzi moves I drop what I’m doing and place my hand on my swollen belly. She’s in there and she’s mine.

My little miracle.

My daughter. (Well, okay, confession, I’m still convinced it’s a boy.)

28 days isn’t nearly enough time to appreciate how far I’ve come and how blessed I am.

But I guess that’s what eternity is for.

28 weeks

Taken at 28 weeks. When I was still kind of nimble and could get off the couch without mooing.