My baby boy is due to arrive next weekend. How crazy is that?! I've been a little nostalgic as I look back over the past nine months and all the milestones... the night I found out and cried and cried until my husband came home (not the reaction I expected to have), the first time I felt the baby move, how I miraculously gained 30 lbs. without even trying, how I had very significant fruit cravings for each trimester: 1st Trimester = Apples. 2nd Trimester = Canned Peaches. And 3rd Trimester = Oranges (an obscene amount of oranges).
And over the next year, there will be more milestones, but they will be my son's... not mine and his. Just his. I'll mark his ability to roll over, sit up, eat solid foods and the first time he says, "Daddy" on the calendar hanging in his room. It's kind of funny to think that as he grows, he will get more and more independent, even though in the beginning he will be so incredibly dependent on us for his care and survival. Last night I went to bed, imagining the day when my little boy would be an eighteen year old Senior and possibly towering over me (okay, maybe not towering, since neither my husband or I possess ginormous genes) but still. He'll be my little boy, but he won't.
When we were stressing and stressing over what to name him, we kept saying, "Yeah, it's cute for a baby, but what about when he's a man?" Someday this little person, who according to a baby-site I looked at last week claimed he was the size of a large mouthed bass fish (every woman's dream baby), is going to be a man. And I hope he gets the best pieces of me (what few scraps there are) and that he takes after his Daddy in every imaginable way. If my son turns out like his father, then he will be so... Oh, gosh.... I don't even know the words. But my eyes just filled with tears, if that's any indication of what a wonderful man God created for me to share my life with. Blessed. So blessed.
I'm anxious for our son to get here. We're ready. We're waiting. The bags are packed. I feel about as ready as I'm ever going to be, although each day that goes by, I'm surprised by how much peace and grace I go looking for when my fears and mental games threaten to get the best of me. I don't have anything figured out. I can't control anything. I'm forced to make myself ready and just wait. And while that's not easy for me to do, I'm learning that I can do it. We can either let Jesus be the steering wheel or the spare tire (thanks to a local church sign for that). You choose. You make up (renew) your mind and go from there.
And on less serious notes, betcha didn't know the picture on my journal of the mother and baby is from an old vintage ad for cigarettes, did you? I find that entire concept amusing (in a sick and twisted kind of way). You would be shocked out of your gourd if you saw an ad involving a mother cuddling her precious newborn, while she prepared to light up after she put him down for his afternoon nap these days. Heck, just seeing this one kind of blew my mind when I first came across it. I mean.... really? Really?
Have a beautiful Monday. And no, that is not an oxymoron. Stop being so cynical.