36 weeks, 2 days.
That's how long they claim I've been pregnant.
38 weeks, 5 days.
That's how long I've been praying for and crying over my baby.
66 weeks.
That's how long I've been planning for this child.
312 weeks... 6 long years.
That's how long I've been begging God for motherhood.
They say you measure a year in love. But how do you measure love?
Today, we had our final ultrasound. My darling still-growing infant and I woke up sooner than either of us wanted, and almost made it on time to the appointment. We got there just as he decided it was time to brace against my ribs and push downward. That hurts. He's long, but we knew that. He's not as heavy as we expected. That's news. His kidneys. Well. Big girls do weep. My little boy's kidneys are still overly full, overly dialated, not working properly at all. And he, my love, is crammed into my abdomen on his way out. Nothing's ideal.
What I didn't expect, in becoming a single mom, is how people would respond to me ... scratch that, how male mechanics would respond to me. My truck needs a battery. One attempted to talk me into an alternator... $200 more than a battery. The next into an alternator AND a battery... add $300 to that last one. I get it. I'm a chick. I'm not supposed to know anything about cars. And I don't. But I do know that I need a battery. That's all I'm willing to pay for. So I drove around town for 3 hours trying to find someone who would be willing to do that which I requested: GIVE ME A BATTERY! Still didn't find it. Still need a battery.
There are still so many things I need to do to prepare for the birth of my child. Papers to write. Art to paint. Clothes to wash. Classes to attend. Furniture to move. Anxiety to release.
I want my son.
I want my dad.
The latter is gone; I can only long for his presence and mourn in his absence.
The former... Patience, apparently, is a requirement.
So... here I am. I'm constantly reminding me that I'm about to be someone's mother. I'm constantly reminding me that I'm a big girl. And moms and big girls have one thing in common: We don't cry. So what happens when we're overwhelmed? What happens when we have those types of days that Mama said would exist? What do we do then? What do we do when our backbones just aren't strong enough to carry the weight? What do we do when our minds just are fast enough to come up with the answers? What do we do when our resource for our faith, the source of our hope, is ignoring us? If we don't weep, what on earth do we do? What are our options?
I guess we weep.
