It occurred to me about thirty seconds ago, with a bit of fear, and a lot of excitement, that the next weekday I find myself not at work, but instead sitting in my usual chair with a cup of coffee in my hand and The Today Show in my ear, that there will be a newborn in my lap.
I haven't slept well in the last week or so. I dream about going into labor. Every time I roll over, I think my water will break like it did with Will. I get up to go to the bathroom, I lay back down, and inevitably cramping and one contraction will follow and I think, "Is this it?"
Last night I dreamed my dad was cuddling his new grandson and then we told him the name, and he promptly handed us the baby back, angry that we didn't choose to name him "Frank Junior." That wouldn't happen, but clearly I've got some apprehension about all things baby two.
This weekend, I chatted with a guy at a birthday party who told me number two was the same as number one, at least for him, and since his wife was still "psycho," he guessed it was the same for her, too.
My sisters-in-law just last night at dinner warned us about the not-so-easy parts of having two. The metaphor had something to do with juggling, and since I've never ever been able to juggle anything--not oranges, not limes, not knives, not sticks of fire--I could feel this fear grow just a little bit more.
And yet here I sit, Will Vroooming! trucks in the playroom, and I think, "Get up out of this chair, momma. Your world isn't going to be the only one turned upside down soon. Go Vroom! a truck with him."
This thought is immediately followed by, "But who will help me get up off the floor?"
It doesn't matter.
I'll find a way, just like I'll find a way to juggle two boys, to manage a house with no sleep, to survive through labor and those post-baby blues.
Will just crawled into my lap.
Maybe I'll just enjoy this cup of coffee with one kid on my lap a little longer.
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