I was awoken out of yet another strange pregnancy dream an hour before the alarm, by my husband's snoring. I considered ignoring my bladder and trying to sleep, but Miles was kicking with gusto in my belly, so I got up and used the restroom. For the next hour I just laid in bed next to Mr. I, waiting.
Sometimes when I imagine my baby of late, here, outside me, in my arms, I can almost feel his round little chest, soft belly, the weight of him in my hands. I almost think I already know the size and shape and texture of his little feet, the grip of his fingers. The anticipation is both delicious and agonizing. I have seven weeks, give or take.
I picked out an outfit for him to wear home from the hospital. It's a cream-colored organic cotton set of pants and matching kimono shirt, with an embroidered bear, and a matching jacket, all gifts from my mom. I chose a chocolate brown newborn onesie for underneath, and just in case he's not so tiny, a backup slightly bigger brown onesie too. An itty bitty pair of white socks with brown stripes, and a blue cotton hat to keep his fluffy little head warm. I laid this out on his changing table, along with a receiving blanket - an old fashioned cowboy print in browns and blues on cream colored cotton, a beautiful gift from a friend.
Now I go in and look at this outfit a few times a day. Seven weeks seems so far away. I've been pregnant with Miles for almost 8 calendar months now, but I've been waiting for him for a year.
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