May 24, 2011
I climbed into bed late last night. My nerves were on edge, my brain refused to stop inventorying and obsessing over the pre-baby to-do list, all the things that I MUST do, SHOULD do, WOULD LIKE to do, and was that a contraction or is the baby just stretching and jamming limbs into tender organs? I put my hands on my belly and tried to will the sensation to memory, because this is it. The last time. The last few days. Oh, but I'm so tired and sore and done. And yet not ready. Not enough time.
One week to go. Short and endless and terrible.
Eight weeks since he died. Like it was yesterday and forever ago, and also terrible.
"He just wanted to hold that baby!" my mom wailed, out of the blue, the last time we talked. She's still prone to bursting into tears at random moments in conversation, and no topic seems to be free of unexpected emotional mines for her. I don't know what else to say except to murmer "I know, I know."
I said the same two words to him, eight weeks ago, over and over again. Shorthand for I know you want to be there. I know you won't be there, that you can't be there. I know you tried. I will always know how hard you tried.
And yet. Not ready. Not enough time. Not fair. I know.