42

Our baby sits low in my wife’s belly. She appears to be quite comfortable, far more so than my wife for whom any position can now only be maintained for short periods at a time. The exercise ball rotates under her hips, the motion intending to push her body along into labour, ready now. 

Our son sleeps upstairs, blissfully unaware of how much his life is about to change. Perhaps we are too. A friend commented recently it’s good we’ve done this already; as if we know what to expect. I think that we have not been here before, that things are not the same, that we do not know what to expect, that whatever this experience brings it will be as unique as the child being born. And that is quite terrifying.

I reminded myself earlier that everything we do today is a last. A last as a trio. A last for a while of a just us two even. But I don’t see fit to mark this in any way. I don’t see the need to linger on the moment I kiss my son as he goes to bed, or somehow capture for posterity these moments, me tapping away single-fingered, she arguing over crossword clues. I’m not even sure why I feel the need to want to make a point about it any more.

Tomorrow is 42 weeks. 

Our little girl has in a sense already been with us for 42 weeks now, making tiny adjustments to the patterns of our lives, hiding in plain site.
However, we’ve all agreed it’s time and one way or another she’s coming tomorrow.

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