Hope Rising

The days are narrowing in on Hope's arrival. With just over 2 1/2 months and some spare change to go, I no longer feel like a holding tank where changes unseen are taking place. Hope is quickly rising to basketball proportions for the upcoming due date. When I finally have a moment to get off of my feet in the late evening, I can be seen with my overstretched T-shirt peeled back as I reconnect with the great sphere of life growing within me. The occasional contraction reminds me she's in there, but soon she will require much more of my attention than evening greetings... more specifically, two hands, the milk bar, and 24 hour care.


Even Faith has begun to poke and prod the protrusion that threatens the available space on Mommy's lap. The other day, as I watched her curiously point at my belly, I decided to tell my eighteen month old the news.

"Mommy has a baby in her belly. A baby is inside my tummy Faith. Hi! Baby." Faith has been very into nuturing her own plastic babies as of late, and perhaps as a result, this revelation made a connection with her. She looked at me and laughed, like I was talking complete nonsense about a baby being inside of my belly. But she poked at me again, and with a smirky smile looked up at me and waited for me to confirm the crazy news that I was hiding a baby in my belly. Which then produced another giggle. If she only knew the whole story that lies ahead...

Hope's relaxed activity in the last two months has given me new hope that I am incubating the sweet cheeked floor potato I openly long for. She makes her presence known with a gentle spirit, reminding me much of my pregnancy with Sir Bugga-lot. If I've got a female version of Sir Bugga-lot, than I've got my floor potato! He was a dream boat baby, and I'll take another one of those gladly. And while I'm putting in my order, a non-refluxy girl would be a welcomed change.

The one thing none of us can seem to wrap our minds around, even after almost seven months, is that we are having another baby. Another. Baby. Even Jack, as he rode his scooter in shorts and yellow slicker boots this evening whizzed by me saying, "I can't believe we are going to have two sisters." To him, (and me) Faith is still the baby. So he sees it as he will have two baby sisters. And perhaps they will always be to my tender hearted Sir Bugga-lot, his baby sisters. As it should be.