I woke up this morning and wondered if I should try to go back to sleep. I'm not actually scared or nervous, much like the morning of your Dad and my wedding. I'm eerily calm and at peace with the reality of the fact that we will almost definitely be parents before I really sleep again. Your Dad was still sleepy, so I went out to the living room, watched a few episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" (which is really cute), ate a Minneola tangelo (which was good, but not as good as the one I had last week), and didn't let myself think of much of anything else. You've been wriggling around a bunch - more than you usually do in the mornings, but I'm somehow not surprised. I'm pretty sure you're officially out of space.
At our last ultrasound yesterday afternoon, the sonographer estimated your weight at eight pounds, three ounces. Uhm...holy shit? I know these types of measurements really aren't necessarily THAT accurate, but dag, yo. Both your Uncle David and I were eight pounds, five (or six - my Mom has told me both numbers) ounces, so there's precedent, but your Dad was only six pounds and six ounces, or something close to that. Granted, he was a bit premature, but still...even at full term, he probably wouldn't have been THIS big. I'm jazzed, really: the more weight you have on you now, the better shape you're in for all the scary shit you'll need to go through (including not actually eating except for by IV for days), but getting over eight pounds of you out of me is going to be a trip.
See, there's the abstraction again. How the hell am I supposed to process the fact that you're going to be out in the world - an actual independently-functioning human being - hopefully in under twenty four hours from now? I mean, at the moment, I'm worrying about things like getting spare keys to our apartment made up, needing to do all our dishes before we leave this evening, and the fact that our cats are likely to be really lonely for the next few days. Tomorrow - even later tonight - priorities are going to majorly change. This morning, the big decisions were whether or not to add chocolate or butterscotch chips to our pancakes, and how many strips of bacon to cook up. (We added both kinds of chips, and each had four pieces of bacon. Hells yeah.) Tomorrow, who even knows?
We coasted through the day with what momentum we have. We spent the afternoon running errands, installing car seats (which was surprisingly easy, given the humorously absurd fuss and hassle it is presented to be in every TV show or movie ever), tidying up the apartment so it's ready for people other than us to be there taking care of the cats and such, and doing our typical anal-retentive over-planning and over-packing. Seriously: I made a five page birth plan, a list of all relevant and necessary phone numbers and contacts people might need, a letter detailing all the things people visiting the apartment can do if they are so inclined (nothing like inviting people to clean and cook for you and knowing they won't resent being asked). These were all Google documents that we printed out and left where they needed to be or brought with us. We showed up at the hospital with five bags, including WAY too much food, enough changes of clothes for both of us to stay here for days (which we know we're liable to do), and enough media and technology to keep us more than occupied and distracted. We heated up leftover Chinese food (Happy Garden!) for lunch, watched an episode of "Bones," and I did a spot-check after your Dad trimmed his hair and beard.
Things seem utterly mundane now, up to and including leaving a note on the kitchen table for whoever checks on the cats next, except there's also a baby seat sitting and waiting, a bag with some clothes for you (for whenever you eventually need them), and we're really only going about ten minutes away. Batman, this is all so weird.