Waiting

All packed and just waiting.

We are at the point of waiting.  The birth mother is 36.5 weeks by the doctor’s estimation, 38.5 weeks by our caseworker’s estimation.

{Of course C. and I have placed bets on the little guy’s arrival.  I say Saturday, February 18th at 4am and he says Thursday, February 23rd at noon.  We shall see who’s correct.}

I packed those bags twice.  In fact, the little guy’s bag got packed four times.

And I wish I could say it was because I wanted to be a more efficient packer each time, but honestly it’s nerves.  Each time I would fold our “hospital clothes” I would think to myself, ‘I wonder if the next time I see this shirt will I be wearing this while holding our son?  …Or will the next time I see it be when I unpack this bag arms empty and broken hearted?’

And yes, I know it’s not good to dwell on that sad possibility.  But it is there.  That chance–the chance it could all fall through–hurts more and more with each passing day because I love him more and more with each passing day.

I’ve always been one to make light of my pain.  I brushed off my cancer, and then my miscarriage, my infertility.  When people told me they were sorry for what I was going through I would smile and say, ‘I’ll be okay!’

But y’all, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to say that if our son doesn’t come home with us.  I won’t be able to shrug it off.  Or smile.  Or say it’s okay.  Because I’m not sure if it will be.

Gosh.  I didn’t mean to sound so “Debbie Downer” tonight.  My heart really is joyously happy.  {I’M ABOUT TO BE A MOM AGAIN!!!}  It’s just that this afternoon as I sat and folded each piece of our clothing, each blanket and each onesie, a certain ‘Big Sis’ shirt in a Minnie Mouse suitcase, I was so hopeful…yet so aware of the possible pain.

But isn’t that what becoming a new parent is?  The hoping, praying, the pain, and love–crazy amounts of love–that’s what we parents are made of.  It’s a beautiful, scary thing, no matter if the baby comes from your tummy or your heart.

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