This is it: the end of my pregnancy. I’m scheduled for an induction on Thursday, so she will be born on or before then. (Like our contract closing dates, the “due date” is more of a guess than a promise.) I’m having ultrasounds at every weekly prenatal visit, stealing glimpses of my new baby girl as the pros make sure she’s doing fine. She is.
I’m ready. Mostly. The ladies at Paradigm’s South Office threw me a surprise Baby Shower last week. I was so touched; it was a great time (and, since we’re all Realtors, of course the food was amazing, including a ridiculously rich and delicious strawberry cake from Jubilee Market on SW 119th & Western). I spent most of this weekend organizing and hanging up the many adorable little outfits our baby girl received. This led, fairly naturally, into realizing that I need to organize my own closet at some point as well … and the next thing I know, I’m spending hours deliberating different bins, baskets, shelves, and cubbies from The Container Store — and wondering how long after the baby’s born I can expect my feet to return to normal so I can go shoe shopping.
I’m not worried, precisely. I was stark terrified going into labor with my son three years ago, more than half expecting to die in childbirth. And it wasn’t that bad, after all. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not at all something that you’d just voluntarily do without the expected payoff, but it was … survivable. And my son turned out to be quite wonderful, which helps.
I hope we get along, you know? Some of the time, anyway. Most of the time, if we’re lucky. I’m very close with my own mother; I hope that my daughter and I can have something similar.