Navigating the Birth-Window Haze

Some last-minute thoughts and feelings about what this next chapter will be like.

I was so sure my baby would arrive early, but here I am on her due date, in a haze of waiting. I bought purple mums and manukas for our apartment, and I hope she’ll get to see them before they wilt. We narrowed our name list from ten to five to three and I’m still thinking of new possibilities every day.

I keep picturing what story we’ll tell her about when she’s born. Just like my mother did for me all growing up—we’d sit around the table eating cake and she’d launch into whichever kid’s birth story was relevant: “On the day you were born…” For me: she had eaten Mexican food. Dad asked the nurses to clear the cobwebs from the hospital room. I came too fast and there was no time for an epidural.

On the day you were born…I keep thinking, everywhere we’ve been in the past week or so.

…I was playing literary trivia with my dear friends. Your father walked me to the bookstore, and then my friends and I won first prize and bought a book with our gift card that we’ll pass around and eventually discuss.

…I went to physical therapy to relieve some of the back pain I had experienced throughout pregnancy. My physical therapist told me my belly still looks small.

…I joined a DnD session with some friends over Zoom and Jo, our cat, played with our dice on the ottoman.

…I went to a movie at Suns Cinema with your father. We spilled my drink and I held a bag of popcorn on my large belly and we laughed at the random bits only ‘90s movies can pull off. We bused home and got ice cream at the corner store. It was freezing.

…I went to Trader Joe’s with your father and stocked up on snacks and frozen food we can easily put together when you arrive. I cleaned the floors with a mop borrowed from our neighbor.

…I went to your aunt’s house to watch the Super Bowl. A good portion of the United States was freaking out that the halftime show starred a man from Puerto Rico. We’ll talk about how silly this is when you are old enough to understand.

…I walked to Dupont Circle and got a pedicure, because I couldn’t reach my toes to do it myself anymore and my ankles were swollen. I sat in the sunshine and watched the ice from one of DC’s worst snowstorms in history finally start to melt.

I keep picturing bringing her home during more snow, shielding her from the flakes as I walk from hospital to car, and from car to apartment. Her first impression of the world may very well be gray and freezing and full of flurries. I keep picturing entering our apartment, setting her down while she’s in the carseat, and asking my husband what we do next. I imagine we’ll just stare at her in awe.

I keep thinking every little moment could be my last. This morning, I ate breakfast by myself, staring off into space out my apartment window. How many slow mornings do I have left? How many late-night talks with my husband before we have to wake up every couple hours and exist in a dreamlike state together? How many more nights will my cat sleep by my head?

I want to bottle it all up and I also want to pour the bottle out. I want to feel it all and I want it to be over. I want to meet her and I’m afraid for her to meet this world. I want to lose myself and I want to come back to myself.

On the day you were born…I was ready and I wasn’t. Every little moment leading up to your birth taught me the same lesson: to hold on tight to life now while also saying goodbye to it.

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A bit of housekeeping for paid subscribers: I do expect at some point to actually give birth and therefore take a bit of a maternity leave from Substack. I hope to be back soon, mostly for myself and my own writing practice. But until then, if you don’t want to pay for zero content, you should be able to pause your subscription in your account settings. At the latest, I expect to be back in May. If you choose to keep supporting during this time off, thank you! Very much appreciated. I’ll be back with more of our regular programming soon.