There are no doubts in my mind that within a month or so, I will wonder what my old life was like. “Old life,” meaning, a life without a child. I hear parents say this all the time. My brother, with four children of his own, laughs in my face when I say two words: I’m busy.

He argues, “Oh, Leese, you don’t know what busy is until you have kids.”

Mhph.

Well, perhaps it’s just another level of busy-ness that I have yet to understand. I do know, however, from sage advice passed down from old and new parents alike, that I should embrace these last few weeks of quiet, down time, doing as I please, and sleep.

I’m trying, but, it’s hard to appreciate what I’ve always had for about 30 years.

The weekends, though, are signs of what is to come.

Comparatively, my weekends have grown to be more domestic, more tasky, less flashy than my weekends of my twenties. A Saturday night in was usually a sign of a wild Friday night. Now, though, a Saturday night in is in order because my poor feet are swollen from walking around Giant Eagle from simple grocery shopping or following Nick around Home Depot while he picks up another space heater.

Not exactly a thrilling weekend, but somehow, it fits where we are right now.

I am beginning to believe that it’s the simple pleasures of life that deliver the most refreshing joy. Particularly when you’re pregnant, have a nasty cold, and can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
Being at home, honestly, has forced me to actually DO things around the house I’ve been avoiding. Over this weekend, I FINALLY bought drapes that I actually like for our windows. Nick FINALLY installed our printer correctly which we’ve had for over a year. I FINALLY tried to make chocolate chip cookies for the first time in my life. And it’s these little things, working together on our home and yelling at the TV when stupid Texas beat Nebraska that makes these new kinds of weekends comforting, relaxing, and enjoyable.

So, let it begin – the quiet, the domesticity, the diapers, the “busy-ness” that my brother alludes to. Let it begin.

I wish there was some sensible and orderly manner to communicate the 9 billion things going through my brain as of late. It’s not a frenzy of thought, it’s just there are SO many things Nick and I are doing and trying to accomplish that it feels almost limiting to try and communicate even a handful of what those things are…Perhaps that’s why blogging our lives in the month of November was such a struggle. There’s almost too much to say and too little time and even less energy to try.

But, we’re not quitters – I’m a determined blogger.

It’s December and, likely, Isaiah’s birthday month. Lately, our doctor appointments have been confirming what I have been guessing for the past several weeks: this kid’s huge. Or, at least, he has huge limbs.

On our last appointment, his weight was in the 70th percentile of babies his age, but his head, dear Lord, HIS HEAD is what we need to be concerned about. His noggin is measuring in the 90th percentile.

Dude.

90th percentile.

Who even has a head that big?

(Nick kindly reminded me, when I asked him that question, that Isaiah’s mom has a big head.)

So, Isaiah has Borchers feet and a Factora head.

I don’t know whether to laugh or pray for him.

So, we just keep truckin’ along, my doctor’s appointments are now on a weekly schedule and we have another ultrasound next Thursday to take some more measurements, make some more decisions. Obviously, an enormous head and little bit of a bigger body may have some problems being birthed by a woman who is only 5’2.5 with a smaller pelvic region.

I knew I should have never married a tall German/Irish/Frenchman.

Sleep has slowly grown into a small nightmare. I am routinely up at least 3 times a night. If it’s not a stuffed up nose (blame the estrogen that causes this syndrome in 30% of prego women), it’s a really dry throat that leads to hacking my lungs out (blame our wonderful space heaters), or it’s time to empty the bladder (that’s just Isaiah pressing against all my organs), or it’s that I am JUST UP, sniffing around the refrigerador for fresh pineapple and a gallon of water. Or, in the middle of the night, a nice bout of heartburn or acid reflux decides to pay a visit and I end up vomiting a portion of dinner. My mom told me she had the same exact issues in the last month of pregnancy as well.

My legs look like two stuffed pillows in pink boots. I have two new precious pimples on my face. My hands are either tingling, numb, or swollen – forcing me to painfully remove my wedding ring for the next few weeks. A caterpillar could officially beat me in a foot race and I cannot reach for anything to save my life. “Nick, can you grab that bowl on the third shelf for me?” “Nick, can you scratch my ankle?” “Nick, can you pick that sock up off the floor?” But the worst part, OH, the worst part has been THE ITCHY ABDOMEN.

I know that the skin is stretching, the colder air dries everything out, but the itching has been nothing short of maddening, simply maddening.

I bought three bottles of extra, intensive, for extra-dry skin lotion and will dump a very generous amount onto my hand. In one stroke across the universe that is my belly, the lotion has already been swallowed up.

Somedays I wonder if it just might be better to sleep in a tub of Curell lotion.

But all the little irritations and annoyances of these last few weeks cannot alter the simply AMAZING journey I have had in this pregnancy. I still have a little bit to go, but overall, it’s been a low maintenance, high excitement 9 months that has left me and Isaiah healthy and happy.

Sure I’m now seeking cupcakes and chocolate like a dog looks for a bone, but to watch Isaiah roll around, pushing and prodding his way into this world makes me smile (or cry out of over emotion) and I just thank God for this wonderful gift of life that Nick and I have been blessed with.

Isaiah, my sweet little boy, we’re ready.