For the last few nights I’ve been sleeping like a baby. That’s right, I’m up every hour or two, either eating, using the bathroom or just restless for no apparent reason. Who thought “like a baby” was a good way to describe deep sleep, anyway? That’s more like sleeping “like a teenager” if you ask me.
Now with my teenage years long gone and my years of motherhood stretched out before me as far as the eye can see, I’ve noticed that I’m counting down my last one, two, three — just please not more than four — childless days with mixed emotion.
I couldn’t express how excited I am to meet our daughter if I tried. I’m thrilled that she’s nearly arrived, and I suspect that feeling will grow tenfold the moment she’s in my arms. But with age some of my childlike optimism (some, not much) has given way to realism. I understand that this little girl is about to turn our lives upside down.
After more than three years of marriage with just the two of us, adding a baby on the scene is going to mean some serious changes, and that is a little scary even if I feel a little guilty for admitting it. There won’t be any more sleeping away our Saturdays or spontaneous trips to the movie theater. It means responsibility in a way we’ve never had before.
But it also means love in a way we’ve never had before. I’m nervous, I’m anxious, and I’m about 50 pounds heavier than I was nine months ago. That doesn’t mean I’m not frantically praying for the baby to get here as soon as possible. I assure you that I am. The changes will be drastic, but after nine months of getting used to the idea, I think we’re definitely ready to make the trade.