I heard from a friend today that she is (unexpectedly and unhappily) pregnant with her fourth child.
And I remember a time, not so long ago, when I found myself in the same position.
I worried about money, I worried about time. I worried about being exhausted all the time. I worried that I didn’t have enough sanity left within me to handle one more. I worried about my older children. I worried that I would miscarry. Again.
And this baby just wasn’t on my schedule people.
It didn’t take long for me to put the very real concerns and cares aside though, and begin to appreciate the fact that we were, indeed, going to be a family of six. For the first time in all my pregnancies, I fell deeply in love with that baby, well before she was born.
And oh, those first few days of having Ella…the smell of her…
The tiny fingers that unfurled at my touch…
The baby breath…
The absolute helplessness and the way she needed me and only me.
And as she grew, there were fat little legs
and hands with those dimples.
There was the first time she said Mama…
and even still, hearing her say it melts me into a puddle of mushy love for that little girl.
And there are those red gossamer curls
and those big blue eyes.
And a baby girl who is becoming a little girl
who won’t wear a bib
or a bow.
But one who likes bonnets
and clickety-clackety shoes.
A little girl who will not let me hold her hand up the stairs
or down the stairs
or in the parking lot
or in the street.
A little girl that sucks on bags of frozen peas (I have no idea…).
And calls herself “baby.”
And a child that has perfected the “camera smile.”
She has spunk, this one does.
She has me wrapped around her little finger.
I can’t imagine my life without her.
Words fall so painfully short of expressing my love for her…
I want to tell my friend that everything will be fine. In fact, it will be more than fine.
I want to tell her how much she will love her new baby.
But I know that she will find out for herself soon enough.