minalisms

Even though there is little, if any, evidence of baby preparation around my house, I’ve been working every day on preparing mentally for July 12 (aka Due Date) and thereafter.

I make to-do lists. I read my pregnancy book. I pore over ratings on cribs, car seats and carriers. I think constantly about my diet and worry about nourishing the little man inside, wonder whether he’ll latch on to my boob when the time comes and if I’ll have the time and energy to make most of his baby food from scratch.

My network of moms and dads have told me that one can never truly prepare for the arrival of a child. “You just learn as you go,” they say. And that makes sense, but, good God, that means I have to pay close attention. At all times. Even when I’m bored, or unmotivated, or sleep-deprived and crabby.

Which brings me to the following conclusion: This kid — he’s going to be one charismatic dude, even more so than his father, who from Day 1 re-ignited my creativity, perseverance and optimism for a happy ending.

For those who haven’t heard the news yet: I’m pregnant. If all goes as planned, my baby boy will be born in mid-July, which puts me at right about the midpoint of my pregnancy.

I’ve been nudged by several friends and relatives throughout the past few months to blog about this news. But one of the reasons I haven’t is that it’s not simple describing what I classify as indescribable. How can you define something that’s so many things, often different things, to so many people? Like love.

Ben and I haven’t made any noticeable preparations for Baby yet. I’m still putting off all purchases of maternity clothes, and the soon-to-be nursery is still an office without order. Four-and-a-half months until labor pains and I already feel like a bad parent. I think I’m catching on.

There are reminders throughout the day: I am going to be a mom. Ben is going to be a dad. We are going to be responsible for the life of a tiny human being.

And that’s when I fall back to square one, where no words justify the emotion behind those statements.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’

Actually, who are you not to be?

- Marianne Williamson
“A Return to Love”

To mark Veterans Day, my husband’s company gave its employees the day off.

I still had to go to work, even though my company has promised to grant me and other workerbees a floating holiday to use by year’s end. We’ll see about that.

Anyway, this situation made for a very jealous Minal this morning, as I dragged ass to clothe and groom myself while Ben stayed in bed all cozy and warm.

He did get up to help me pack my lunch — a very husbandly nicety.

He was so husbandly, in fact, that as I pulled out of the garage and onto our street, still grouchy, Ben was standing outside our front door, with a paper or magazine in one hand and a coffee mug (empty, because he doesn’t drink coffee) in another. He looked at me, grinned and raised the mug à la Ward Cleaver.

His hokeyness made me laugh so loud through my open window I worried the entire cul-de-sac heard.

“He’s totally the man for me,” I thought.

I did not pee on a stick this weekend as I said I would. I’m putting it off because I think it’s too soon.

There, see. I’m not keeping you in suspense any more than myself. So I’ll report back on this matter in a future post, when I deem it to be appropriate. Because, as I conveyed to my friend, shortly after Thursday’s post, I remembered that sometimes it’s best to zip it.

In other news, I also did not spend a ludicrous amount of money on clothing as I had intended, so my checking and savings accounts remain intact. Thank you, logic.