Hold my hand

Every Tuesday and Thursday when I waddle into Fletcher's daycare center, I wonder about how this routine will change when there are two children to be picked up and taken home. I think about when Fletcher was an infant and how hard it was for me to take a step back from the cradle, then another step back, then another, until I was several miles away at work. How much harder will it be to leave my next infant with strangers? How relieved will I feel every Tuesday and Thursday when I get that baby back into my arms?

Daycare has been very good for Fletch. It was hard at first for him to be somewhere without any of the people that he loves, but now that he's used to it, I have to come up with reasons why he should put away that toy and come home with me. Are you thirsty? There's ice water in the car. Are you hungry? We can go eat whatever you want for dinner. Do you want to go shopping? Do you want to play at the new home?

Eventually he catches on and runs to the front door of the building. "Hold my hand," I say every time when we get outside. "Green car! Green car!" he'll say. Then we'll get to the curb and "Jump!" into the parking lot.

I get myself through the day so that I can feel his soft, dirty little hand in mine.

He's good about holding hands in parking lots, but the closer we get to the car, the harder he pulls to tug his hand free. Every day, there are fewer things that I can force; so much relies on his compliance now that he's growing up.

These years of holding my child's hand are so small, so short in my lifetime. How can I slow this down? How can I keep him from racing off like the runaway train that he is?

I can barely remember what he was like as a baby. It's been years since I've really held a baby. And look at my baby now, running so fast I can't catch him.

The unfortunate contradiction is that the school system would have me believe he's behind. He should be wearing underwear by now (without the frequent accidents). He should be sitting at the table through every meal and eating his fruits and vegetables. He should be speaking in complete sentences and communicating his thoughts and answering questions and should be... should be.

Of course I want him to progress and reach the great potential that he so clearly has. Why else would I stress and wear myself out trying to push my rising sun to high noon? But. It seems obscene to try to hurry him forward, hurling him up into the sky, knowing how that will take us that much closer to sunset.

To the time when he won't hold my hand at all.

Then I worry and wonder if I'm somehow holding him back, holding him too tight, too close, like the baby he'll never be again.

31w2d coconut

We've agreed on a name, so unless a miraculous new name comes along (or he turns out to be a she), this jumpy baby is officially labeled.

This week's food analogy: baby is like a big coconut with arms and legs -- around 16 inches long and 3-4 pounds. He'll be doubling his weight in the next eight weeks.

His bones are fully developed. His wide-open eyes are getting ready for birth, gaining the bluish color he'll probably be born with. His constant kicking, somersaulting, and hiccuping is the driving force for my nausea, insomnia, and heartburn. Have I mentioned heartburn? HEARTBURN. In the all-star wrestling match between my lungs, uterus, and bladder, it isn't a surprise that the uterus is by far the victor. 

Although he's getting long, he has some plumping up to do before delivery. He may be practicing breathing with amniotic fluid. His brain is online -- processing information, tracking light, and perceiving signals from all five senses. His central nervous system can probably control his body temperature now.

For my 32-week appointment on Wednesday, I need to alert the doctor to the frequent Braxton Hicks contractions I've been having, along with some sharp abdominal pain, so that we keep an eye out for pre-term labor. I'm all for delivering before the due date, just not this far before it.

I'm eager for the appointment in a few weeks that will determine the baby's exact position and whether or not I'm dilated already. At the same time, I wish pregnancy wasn't going so fast. This is probably the last time I will ever be 31 weeks and 2 days pregnant. These are the last months of my life that I might feel this big alien movement under my skin. It's the last time Fletcher will be an only child.

The baby stuff we have is pretty much unpacked and ready, which means I have to unpack for myself now. And next on the list is to get my hospital bag ready.

Nesting in a new house when I have to spend all my time working is an insane endeavor. Similarly, I contacted the school district to get Fletcher's therapy set up, and now I'm basically telling them that I can't fit it into our schedule. Unless we win the money or grandparent lottery, Andy and I are going to raise our children by not sleeping. Apparently. Something has to give by wintertime.

kings

All hail