And what the hell is this?

Only a few short weeks ago I couldn't even process the idea of a live baby. Yes, while I was vigilantly noting every twinge and every kick in the effort to not have a dead one. Logic-shmogic. It says nowhere that I have to be consistent. Oh, I did the bare minimum-- I talked to my boss about the logistics of the maternity leave and I arranged for our wonderful nanny to come back for the days I will have to be at work. If, I kept saying, if.

Beyond that? Nothing. Blank. Couldn't go there. Wouldn't go there. Figured I didn't really have to go there. Oh, wait. One other thing. We talked about the room, about how we won't repaint it. I said I need to change something in there, but not much. It came to me-- the floor. The carpets upstairs are as old as the house-- almost 12 years old. Time to pull and change to fake hardwood. You know, laminate. But my dad said he can do it in a day, while I am still in the hospital. Seeing as he was the one who painted that room for A, finishing it exactly a week before A died, I think he gets to do this any way that works for him. Yes, I could've hired someone to do it, but I am pretty sure dad wants at it, but only after. If, I mean if.

So here's the thing. These days I can, sort of, once in a while, for short periods of time shhhh.... imagine the live baby thing. It started, strangely enough, the week before I ended up in the hospital in PTL. It started with me thinking that at some point I should think about what I want to have with me if I have to be admitted. I came up with three things-- my good camera, my little puppy that I bought in the early days because he reminded me of A somehow, and the doughnut pillow they gave me after Monkey. Shut up. I totally needed it, and I expect to need it again.

Turns out thinking you will deliver in the next couple of days really does a number on you. When that happens while you are hooked up to that lovely heart rate monitor, you might even begin to believe the whole deliver a live baby thing. Well, I did. Started to.

And then we went home. And I was calm for a few days. And then not so much, again. Though most days now I am calmer than I was before the hospital. (Only most-- I can still work myself up but good when something starts to seem fishy.) And suddenly, in these short little intervals when I think in terms of when rather than if, things began to come to me. Like the fact that finding my nursing bras may be a good idea (a long tale of trivial pursuit is skipped here, because I love you and don't want to bore you, but I do have them now, washed and packed), or that I may need to think of clothes. You know, for the baby. To come home in. Right.

I made Monkey's coming home outfit. It was a one piece with snaps down the front and on the legs, plus a fleece one piece with velcro closures for the vulgarities of the spring that is really still winter. Both are in her baby box now. I have said before that I don't do guilt, and as far as general statements go, this one is pretty accurate. But turns out I do it a little bit when it comes to things I do for my kids(TM).

I never made anything for A-- I thought I still had time. And I am pretty sure sewing baby clothes is not in vogue in that nice place that is not just a river in Egypt where I was spending the bulk of my time until just then. In fact, I am thinking this baby clothes thing gets me an automatic eviction notice. Suddenly, though, I found myself thinking that with the reprieve and the whole being at home all day thing I really should make him something.

My doom arrived in the form of Monkey looking through her baby book and box for the first time in a couple of years. She forgot about the clothes I made for her, and upon hearing what they were immediately wanted to give them to baby brother. Ummmm... waaaay out of season, kid. Plus, they are yours, to keep. But you have successfully accomplished your first mommy guilt trip, and on behalf of your unborn baby brother no less. Impressive, yes. But don't go getting used it, is all I am saying.

Here's why this is a big deal-- dead Jewish babies don't need any clothes. All they need is a shroud. Taking up this project meant creating a tangible, physical record of that bitch hope sneaking into my house.

So yeah, she's been hanging around. Oy.

 

That's my A puppy. Here for size comparison. And because he is cute.

 

I think the pants came out huge. It was supposed to be 1 month size (from this pattern). Well, might be good for comic relief.