Tuesday, March 11, 2014

38 weeks

I am about to pop.

Literally, the skin across my belly is so tight ( perhaps because of that neat non-flexible surgical reminder up the middle ) I fear it will split right up my exploratory scar and all my guts will fall out onto the ground.

Then there is the pressure. The kind that makes me feel as if I don't pop the baby will just fall right out from between my legs one day while I'm walking the supermarket beat.

I am 38 + 4 today.

I have had terrible insomnia this pregnancy.

Terrible Braxton Hicks upwards of 8 times a day for the last 3 weeks.

I am ready to have a baby, so ready.

When Boy was in utero it was utter bliss right up until the end. No pain, no insomnia. Just an end of pregnancy glow. There wasn't a hint he was coming out and I didn't mind one tiny bit.


Dear baby girl,

It is getting closer- much, much closer to the first time we will meet face to face.

I say face to face because we have all ready met 1000 times before.

For 9 months we've shared the space between my ribs and pelvis.

Your huge tumbles and rolls giving way to jabs and pushes as you ran out of room.

I can feel your little feet, your little knees all scrunched up down my side.

It must be very squishy in there now.

Even for a little girl who is predicted to only make the 20th percentile.

Last Saturday we went about making final preparations for your arrival.

This week, as is traditional, I will look for a blankie for you.

Just like I did for Boy.

One that he still sleeps with, although his big Boy feet stick out the end when he's wrapped up in its comforting warmth now.

The edges are worn and the corners have been sucked and chewed from when he was teething.

But the blankie will always be his, it will always be a reminder of how small he was as a newborn.

Of when he walked, dragging that blankie behind him, and his bear in the other hand - a perfect toddler.

Of when he would take it to Daycare and by Pre-school felt safe enough to leave it behind.

I can't wait to meet you, to hold you and to wrap you in the warmth of your Daddas arms and your very own blankie.

For that blankie to carry your very own stories.


Mumma x


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