Since seeing my doctor on Friday, and since scheduling my c-section for Memorial Day morning, I've totally changed my tune. I used to be all "la la la, I want this baby out this minute. dum dee dum dum I'm so ready not to be pregnant anymore." And now, now that the surgery is scheduled and come 8am Memorial Day morning I'll be nearly cut into two separate pieces while my beloved doc thrust her arm into my torso up to her elbow and pulls out a new member or my family, I'm back peddling. My tune sounds more like, "I HATE being pregnant (as thankful as I am to be so) but can I push a pause button someplace, recoup some energy cycles, and just plaaaaaay with Clementine all summer long. Just the two of us dee dum."
I love my kid. She is smart and funny and spontaneous and soooo random. She loves to laugh and make others laugh. She is great at giving compliments. She yells, "toot" whenever she...toots. And loves it when Nate and I burp (which, if you've ever been around a pregnant woman...is often). She loves to get dirty and play with toy sharks and be outside. She sings! She dances! There is a million versions of her smile and each one makes you feel like a million bucks.
So, who in their right mind would ever want more than what I already have? Who would want to introduce a distraction from the most amazing person ever to be born? WHAT HAVE WE DONE? These are the thoughts that have passed unceasingly thru my head. I took Clementine to This is The Place park a few days ago, which sidenote was a perilous endeavor for someone of my pregnancy level, but I did it because when else could I and how could she turn two without having ever petted a baby goat or rested one tiny little finger on the top of a baby chick's downy head? HOW? So we went. And I sweated mighty rivers. If you were there on Tuesday and you saw a woman that was totally pregnant and pitting out and drenched in a gallon of her own sweat...that was me.
Clementine embraced the baby animals with nothing less than 100% of her love. She squatted right over the sleeping baby goats, patted them on the tummies, and said, "soooo cute". She gently rubbed her fingers through the wool of the baby lambs and declared, "sooo soft". The pot belly pig, while in a pen, was a highlight. And the baby chick? Now I know how she will be with baby Busy. So gentle and sweet and ADORABLE. Every time her pointer finger softly touched the top of the chick's head she would say, "cheap". The pony ride was a no-go. I was disappointed because what mom doesn't want her girl to be fearless and embrace every opportunity. But she is MY daughter after all which means she does realize that the only horses you can trust are the ones my dad, "Pop", has trained. Period. Anything else is taking your life into your own hands.
Aside from the baby animals I've tried to do something special with just me and Clem every day. We've painted pictures (which has quickly become her OBsessions). We've played in her shark pool. We take walks and sing and dance and eat cookies whenever we damn please. And I've been so tired and felt so disgusting and I've had the time of my life. Like, queue up the song from Dirty Dancing because "I've haaad the time of my liiiiife."
I know what will happen though. I know that by 10am on Memorial Day I'll be gazing into a pair of dark eyes, kissing a soft cheek and holding a tiny wilted hand and I'll be like, "Okay, you can come play with us. We'll make room." And then the three of us will hold hands and skip off into the sunset. Or something like that.
When I had Clementine my heart literally broke. I held her and tended to her in the hospital for ten days and it just broke. And when it grew back together it was a little bigger and softer and began communicating regularly with my tear ducts. And I know that once Busy is more than this little body that kicks me incessantly with all six of her legs, my heart will break again. And what I'll be left with will be a superman strength heart that will become even more annoying on Facebook and Instagram with all the "my babies are better than your babies" posts. I'm sorry about that by the way. Every baby is perfect and beautiful. Mine just happens to be a smidge more-so.
So once again, this blog has served more as a personal therapy session. I have a fear, I stew over it for days and nights, I decide to blog about it, and voila! I come to some conclusion on my own that makes me feel a little better.
So I guess I'm still basically excited for Beatrice to be born. Busy, don't take offense to any of this when you are 13 and snooping through my personal stuff, it's not that I didn't love you from the moment you existed, it's just that I was super busy being completely in love with your older sister. And this, as it turns out, is a good thing because it was all good practice for loving you, too.