Nineteen months.
I have been waiting for a baby (and for a while, two) for 19 long months, spent counting the days and weeks. Planning and waiting. And waiting.
And I wonder how this ends, as I've spent the better portion of my last two years in a holding pattern. I want to run a marathon. I want a new pair of jeans. I want to surprise Andy with the anniversary get-away I have been scheming for the past three years, and I want to make holiday travel plans. I even want to go to work conferences and overhaul our backyard landscaping. I want to volunteer to help with long-range projects instead of stopping myself half-way in as I wonder if I'll have to duck out early for maternity leave. And I want to stop delaying family pictures with "we may as well wait until..."
Even as I type this, I look over that list and chuckle at how small such complaints sound when held up against a new life. Of course a baby wins out over jeans and vacations and committees.
But...
Does a dream really trump the living, breathing life that surrounds me? This may not make sense to everyone who reads this, but the truth is: I want a baby. Or I dont. (But really, I do.) I am just so, so tired of waiting.
I just want to get back to my life and look ahead without second-guessing the timing. Now, if I could just figure out what that life is supposed to look like.
