We don’t know the sex of the baby, and my inklings of a girl are becoming less certain, and my delight in the mystery is becoming more definite.
We have no name for the baby, no one assured name, but our names are whittled down to just those you can fit in the palms of your hands, whittled down in a way that is quite satisfactory and beautiful to me like a walnut walking stick or tiny wooden animals. We will chose a name when when we hold this baby in our arms. Until the names will jingle in my pockets, and I will smile at the thought of them. They are wonderful.
I have just one meal stocked away in the freezer, and doubt that another will be added this week. How can you think about big batches of freezable meals when hot breezes come through the windows and the garden in squirming its way to ripeness and nothing tastes better than just a bit of this and a bit of that and bread and a hunk of cheese?
Empty freezer or no, I’m becoming friends with this moment. I’m less tired of being tired, and I am enjoying the charm of bending over in wobbly ways to weed the tomatoes. And somehow, I find myself becoming more self-assured as a mother. It feels good.
In one month I will be full term, just less than that, actually. My time alone with this baby is coming to a close, and I want to use it so well. I want to write and listen to good songs and eat butter and vegetables until the sun goes down. I think this child would want it that way.