The summer feels long at this point. I begin to think that I will never have this baby. Not that I feel like, ugh, I feel like I'll never have this baby, but more that this new reality is the only reality. That the next step, having a baby, is an illusion. Being pregnant is my new state of being, and I'm just getting used to it. No point in upsetting the balance now.
Different days. Different weeks. Different shirt. Same intention.
It is around here that I begin to suspect I'm in my salad days. I had the same feeling the summer before I started graduate school: that I am enjoying the expectation of something wonderful, the anticipation, rather than the reality of that wonderful thing. When it's all waiting and getting seats on the subway and napping whenever I want.
to be continued . . .