Three months to go until Little Miss Imogene will join our testosterone-filled family. Twelve weeks … 90 days … 2,160 hours … but who’s counting?
Oh, how I’d love to be one of those women who loves being pregnant. But I am definitely not. I am very lucky and I know it. My pregnancies are really, for the most part, non-eventful. They are sort of by-the-book with no big surprises. But I get pregnant all over: my arms, my legs, probably my ears if I looked closely enough. And at 41, I’m well aware that it will take a little longer to get it off this time around. But also because I’m 41, I have a little more of a “this is me, take it or leave it” attitude. (I swear something happens at 40 when you just don’t sweat the small stuff anymore.)
We had given away our baby crib and our glider, because we weren’t going to do this again. (Yeah, that worked out well for us.) So those things are making their way back into our house. Our storage area will soon be cleaned out, but not because of the huge garage sale I was going to have in May, but because that stuff will be making its way back up into our main living areas. The pump, the bottles, the clothes and everything else that Imogene may need, it will all soon be washed and sanitized and organized.
I still can’t believe we get to do this one more time. It’s nothing short of blow-my-mind humbling, that’s for sure.