Hubs asked me today how many days we have left.
(It’s funny how he can ask something like that completely at random, given the season we are currently in, and I know exactly the answer.)
Eleven days left.
Eleven days from now (give or take), I will be able to paint my toe nails, shave my legs, sleep on my stomach, slip off my sandals without a semi-permanent imprint on my fat feet, move the wet laundry into the dryer without contorting uncomfortably to get the last few socks in the back of the washer bin, and climb my stairs without stopping for a breather halfway up.
In (roughly) eleven days, I will no longer be playing the waiting game with my husband, my son, and my doctor.
In (approximately) eleven days, the little Bean that has been growing inside my skin, quiet, safe, and warm, will burst onto the set of our lives and into this noisy, germ-ridden, pollinated, dangerous world full of UV-rays and sharp objects.
In (hopefully) eleven days, my son and my husband will get to hold the little person who has intimately belonged to me alone these past nine months. My parents and his parents will cradle her and watch their blood and legacy sprout all over again in her brand-new life. She will be passed from grasp to grasp, blinking curiously at the big, blurry faces swooning over her. We will marvel over her and cry over her. Hubs and I will glow over her, and stare at each other and wonder, How did we make something so beautiful…again?