I’ll do it next weekend I thought as I looked at the stack of baby shower thank you cards I still hadn’t mailed out and the list taped to the kitchen cabinet. The one that grew and shrank and grew again, which the reality of childbearing couldn’t sway. And then, in that moment I realized, we were running out of weekends. There ones between me and this baby, the one turning untempered circles in my belly. If he even decided to stay in for that long. I had so much to do. A hospital bag to pack. Tiny clothes to wash and fold. Moments alone with Harp to steal and tuck away before the true guilt of a new baby turned from a late night thought into a 2AM reality.
By the time Saturday rolled around my hospital stay had come and gone. Indiana Vincent was born at 3:33 AM on a Wednesday in May. 7 pounds, 15 ounces, and a full head of red hair that has fallen out and since been replaced by a soft blond shock. The preparatory weekends had run out.
In the seven months that have elapsed much has changed. His weight on my hip is measureable, the swell of my biceps more pronounced from the constant push and pull that mothering requires. His arms and legs stretch a surprising distance as he kicks the blankets off much like his sister did at his age. He’s crawling now. Faster and with more focus with each passing day. He cruises the couch with ease, standing with a look on his face that perfectly demands you be impressed with his newfound mobility. In the night he calls me by name, desperate for the comfort only a mother’s proximity can provide.
Weekends, they go a little slower now. There is more time spent as a single heap in the queen bed that can barely accommodate. All of us still learning how to be a recently expanded puzzle. More time spent trying to get out the door because there are more caveats for leaving the house. Car seats and well stocked diaper bags. More of us. Four people instead of three.