Tomorrow at approximately 2:00 pm we will meet our daughter- quite a surreal concept. After an adorable march of eleven baby boys in a row, she will be the first girl grandchild for my in-laws in twenty-five years and the first ever girl for my parents. That’s a lot of pressure to put on one infant. I expect she’ll be quite the tomboy, running with her big brother and pack of wild cousins, blissfully unaware of any differences between she and them.
I have transformed into a manatee-like creature, drifting through my days, rejecting deadlines and goals in favor of quiet moments with my ever-growing son- an insane though brilliant almost four-year-old who can already read and play Minecraft. The first half of my pregnancy was quite the fog of malaise and fatigue. I spent many an hour lying prostrate on the Victorian couch in the living room, cursing my husband for selling me on the idea of a second kid. But with time, the sickness abated, replaced by excitement and an uncontrollable nesting instinct. This baby already owns more clothing and accessories than I ever will.
Though I have felt pretty darn good for the latter portion of my pregnancy, I’ve retained a carefree laziness. I haven’t published any literary pieces in months. My thrice-edited manuscript sits in judgment of me, atop my desk, wondering why it hasn’t been sent out, at least in small portions, to query literary agents. The simple answer? Fatigue. A lack of mental clarity. The attention span of a gnat. These days, I can barely recall all of my obligations, let alone actually fulfill them. I did finally work up the lucidity and courage to send out the first ten pages or so to my writing group, a momentous affair in my stalled timeline- and eagerly await what I hope will be sincere constructive criticism and not obligatory praise or sugar-coated suggestions for a sleep-deprived mother.
Bottom line? Life is beautiful. Creation is beautiful. Don’t rush it.