Nothing expresses itself as makes sense. A need for sex comes out as snappish anxiety. A need for time to myself, journaling, or mind-wandering, can often only be noticed when all I want to do is stitch. A restless mind and a desire for 90s music translates to a need for a good night’s rest. Frantic cleaning is usually sign of missing friends, of wanting someone to clean up for. My body and mind and soul speak different languages.
As of yesterday, I am 35 weeks pregnant, meaning that soon this baby will no longer be hiccuping and stretching and kicking and prodding from the inside but on the outside. Meaning that sleep will no longer be interrupted by weird aches and compressed lungs and heartburn and needing to pee but for endless nursing and mysterious fussing. Meaning that soon I will be leaking all over. Meaning that soon there will be a tiny, snuggly, beautiful, milk-scented new person in my life. It’s no longer a thousand years away, but soon. I’m beginning to stock up on birthing supplies, beginning to think about the After as something tangible. There will be a spring, even if it’s hidden under three feet of snow.
Meanwhile, my back complains and the baby, slowly realizing that space is becoming scarce, jabs at my ribs and grinds into the base of my pelvis. Sometimes I feel round and ripe and glowing, but mostly I just feel soft and sun-deprived and weighed down. It has been too cold to even spend much time outside, even with our rather lenient standards on what is “too cold,” and so my son is frantic, sleeping less, having trouble focusing without his usual hours of outdoor activity. He is still bright and loquacious and creative and mischievous and affectionate, but space between us has been nearly as limited as space in my belly, and my patience thins. Friends are too busy to meet, or toddlers or sick, or weather interferes.
I miss sun-heat on my skin. I miss moisture hanging in the air. Two cold winters with a mild summer in between, and I miss the sense of balance. I know, all things in their time, but I think, too, that the wanting is part of what makes it good.