I know this is not the end even though it kinda is

Dear Loverpants, I have a strong feeling that neither one of us will emerge from this weekend without having met Newbie 'Nother Baby.  And by strong feeling, I mean that reminders keep coming every 5-10 minutes like an alarm clock vibrating along my uterine walls.  Nay, the weekend shall not close, I suspect, without Newbie coming out some manner of hatch on my person, God-made or man-made, and that is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once and over and over again.

That said, I just want to put this out into the Universe:  If I die in childbirth, which I likely won't, but, ya know, in the event of a fatal nosebleed from all that pushing, I just want you to know that I think you are wonderful and through the prism of parenthood, I got to see your wonderfulnesses exponentialize and consider myself the most blessed wifemum ever!  Even if I harped on you not doing things immediately...you taught me to remember what really mattered was not expediently putting away the pyjamas off the bathroom floor but having lots of laughs and tea parties with Baby Girl and wanting what we have and nothing more.

Please give yourself a hug and an earlobe pinch for me everyday, and tell Baby Girl that she was the most extraordinary treasure I've ever been lent.  Also, hug her daily for me and tell her that the best days will be those when she helps others.  Also, that she will someday be a great climber, maybe of rock walls or corporate ladders or ivory towers.

Tell Newbie how much he/she was loved his/her whole womb life by me, and how I know what a great kickstarter he/she will be in this life, and I'll look forward to meeting and holding him/her in the next life.

Finally, do promise me that if I die in childbirth, your next go-round with marriage you'll find yourself a kinder wife, less given to theatrics such as in this blog post.

Love Love Love, K

P.S. I loved what you wrote here.

Projections

When I graduated from grade school (it was a K-8 type establishment), I thought I was going to become a great feminist orator, taking down the patriarchy one impassioned Gloria Steinem speech at a time. When I graduated from high school, I thought I was going to become a great humanitarian, an eventual czarina of the American Red Cross, traveling the world on a campaign to suck the world of its healthy blood.

When I graduated from college, I thought I would move to Boston, drink a lot of martinis, work a mediocre job while applying to law school, and eventually become a great attorney, vanquishing injustice one power suit trip at a time.

When I graduated from graduate school, I thought I was really in a pickle because I would have loans and a kid and a mortgage and no time or no energy reserve to produce anything worthwhile for the next eight years.

And I have to say that pretty much none of these projections have really come true.  There are letters next to my name that don't mean a lot.  There are bills in my name that should mean more but don't.  There are clips in my portfolio for which I nearly killed myself and for which I was paid a pittance.  There are dozens of jobs on my resume that led me closer to more detours that led me closer to more doubt and self-loathing. Yet I wouldn't trade any of it for a smarter dossier, a shinier car, a more assured career path.

I want this life, this one that I never expected.  This union with my best friend, my laughing partner, Saturday nights spent unloading Trader Joe's of all of its inventory.  This urbane home of the dirty, cluttered, creaky floors and the neighbors who like to bang upstairs.  This full-time job of motherhood where the overtime pay comes in chubby fingers reaching out to latch on to yours.

Not even 30 and my stock portfolio includes a closet full of lip gloss and an enviable supply of cloth diapers.

Happy Mother's Day to those who never expected to love the job as much as you do, and for all those who will join the force soon, I'm wishing you a blessed journey.

And to you, Newbie 'Nother Baby:  We're keeping a "wook-out" for you....

P.S. Here's a Mum's Day-ish column I wrote.  Enjoy.

Hottie, Hubbie, Hero

I have a hard time writing about him.  The whole exercise feels showey-provey, like sending flowers to your spouse's workplace just to validate what?  That you can send flowers?  To your spouse?  At work?  Because bringing them home to her and placing them in a vase in your own kitchen isn't good enough? I have trouble writing about my husband, because words fall short of my appreciation.  I can write elegies about the man he was, he is, and will be, but I have been loving this man for a third of my life.  We have shared tents and bathrooms the size of Tic Tac containers.  We have shared sicknesses and hopes and resumes and friends.  We share an address and a last name and a child.  A child that is made, particle for particle, of our very fibers.

I really cannot write about him.  I don't think he likes it.  He's described by co-workers as "understated." Brilliant without you're even knowing it.

But I can't not write about how much I love this man.  He works three jobs; when you see him, he has either not slept for 36 hours, or will not sleep for the next 36.  And then he will come home and do dishes and kiss boo-boos and disassemble faulty shower heads.  And he never complains.

I've heard women say that they sometimes don't know why their husbands love them, why they put up with them.  A couple of months ago, Lovey Loverpants gave a sermon on the meaning of love and how we can't fully know love until we know grace.  That is, we can't expect to give love if we haven't learned to appreciate the love of which we are so undeserving.

I think of that now, at 2:53 a.m. while false labor pangs keep me awake, after a weekend of behaving like some kind of feral cat in heat. He never complains. He loves me beyond all deserving.  I can't write about him.  All I can do is love him. My husband, my hero.