Letters to Liam - Week 40

Dear LL,

We're here. We've arrived at the (approximate) end of this journey. With every passing hour, we expect this next part to begin. You were due yesterday, and although I'm still at home, waiting for something to happen, I know you're not far away.

It's been difficult to concentrate on anything but you this past week. I stopped working last Monday, much to the relief of my boss and coworkers. They're were all dreading the day I went into labor with you while at work. It was a relief to me too, as I'm getting too big to do anything comfortably, especially drag myself to work and get stuff done. Stopping work, though, also meant that I had much, much less to concentrate on, besides waiting for you. So that's mostly what I've been doing this week. Waiting.

Your dad is waiting too. He keeps planning little outings to keep himself from going crazy in the house. He'll go ice fishing, or for a ride on the snowmobile, but he keeps showing up back at the house much earlier than expected. He'll look sheepishly around, and explain that he can't think about anything else while he's out except that you and I might need him then. It's sweet.

Yesterday, the day you were due, I woke up with the cold I've been trying to avoid catching. It's a pretty yucky one...all sinus pressure and sneezies and sore throat. It keeps me up at night, shaving off another few hours from the sleep I'm already not getting. If I must be up, then I wish you were here to at least make me feel like I was accomplishing something. I hate the television, I've got no movies to watch; thank goodness for the stack of books I bought on Thursday. It's so nice to have new reading material. I started with a biography of Beatrix Potter, and it's quite interesting.

The pets have been behaving quite funny this week. They all know something is up. Lola hasn't left my side in four days, quite literally. She's my constant companion in bed, tunneling under the blankets, or on my lap, on on the side of the bathtub, or underfoot in the kitchen. Oscar refuses to give up his perch on my belly, no matter how hard and rounded it has become. He balances well, and I don't think you'll be a stranger the the sensations of a purring cat next to you once you are born. Murphy is his usual sweet self, anxiously splitting his night time between your dad in our bed downstairs and me in the spare room where I've retreated to. The bed there is much easier to get in and out of a dozen times a night, being much higher off the ground, and is conveniently located directly next to the bathroom. Plus, when we wake at three and can't get back to sleep, we don't wake your dad by reading upstairs or listening to an audiobook.

It might interest you to know that if you haven't decided to arrive by next Friday, then I'll be induced that day, which means you'll have to come out like it or not. Better to make that decision on your own, I'm thinking. So for heaven's sake, let's get this party started. I've begun screening our calls, out of sheer necessity. Our phone rings constantly, and everyone wants to know where you are. You might be a Valentine's baby after all, I'm thinking. That, I suppose, is up to you.

Come out, Little Lentil. It's your birthday and we want to celebrate.

Love,

Your mama