This morning at 6:45 sharp I heard my daughter jump out of bed. She chattered a while and putzed around in her bedroom, climbed onto her dresser to feed her fish, put some of her stuffies back to sleep in their own little beds, then stomped down the stairs and into bed with me (dad was there too, but morning snuggles have been all about the girls these days). We snuggled up for a while, longer than usual, until we really couldn’t put off breakfast any longer. My husband carried her to the kitchen where she pushed the button on the coffee, pressed her waffles into the toaster, then asked if we could snuggle more on the sofa while dad got the rest of her breakfast together.
Somehow she knew that this was the last morning of the routine. Sisterly intuition I suppose, but somehow we both knew that this was the end of these grooves we’ve worn so well over four years, three houses, two jobs and just one child.
I dropped her off at school with her spare ten minutes for playtime before the bell. She hugged me even more tightly than usual, and I lingered to watch her play longer than has become my habit. Then I walked to my car, had another contraction along the way, and realized that all of this really was happening.
My contractions have been coming slow and steady for the past few days, then steadier (if still slowly) last night. After what felt like weeks of pre-labor, I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours or so somewhere between hope and denial that my baby boy’s time really seemed to have come.
And it has. We’re off to the hospital now. The bag I packed so many weeks ago is finally going into the car, my daughter’s little suitcase is finally headed to my parents’ house, and the life we’ve all known and loved together is finally moving to its next phase.
Thanks so much to everyone who’s been traveling with me along the ups and downs of this journey. Please don’t be strangers! I’ll be back again soon, with more journeys to share.