More

After that last post, I keep thinking that there is more to say.

As emails and texts and neighbors pop in to check on me, I keep thinking that there is more I should say—to assure everyone that I am fine, that we are fine. (For the record, we are doing good and are fine, thanks for asking.)

As I sit with myself and try to assess this crazy heart-ruled brain of mine, I keep thinking that there should be more to say, but the truth is, nothing has changed and we are fine. So what else is there to say?

How do you talk about something that is just as it has always been? It's a weird spot to be in—wholly but unnoticeably changed, with nothing tangible as testament to two years of living.


Nothing changes. Now two years into this third baby business, we are still just the four original Burts who comfortably fit in the Honda Accord I got in college and have no need for the plans we've commissioned to turn the guest room into a bedroom and third bathroom. I set the baby toys aside in a bin in the guest room rather than lugging them back into the attic because I was sure we would need them soon, but that was two years ago. I have spent the last two years preparing for something that has never happened, and unless you crawled into my head, you would have no way of knowing all the hopes and dreams and planning and preparation and changing that has taken place to end up exactly where we started.

When I was at the doctor's office, already crying because I knew the ultrasound was just a formality, the nurse asked, "This is your fourth pregnancy, right?" I first said, "No, it's my third—" because I was counting the two other kids I'd kissed goodbye on my way out the door, but then I interrupted myself to say "I mean fifth—" because I was counting the number of babies I've actually conceived. For a moment, I had no idea how to answer that question, and I was shocked at the realization that I had just completed my fourth pregnancy. Andy and I are both from families of four kids, and I always thought we would have four kids too. It's a bit surreal to realize that I  am there in number of pregnancies but still only half way there if you're counting the number of kids I sing to sleep each night.

I don't know if there are words to explain it—this middle place of looking back and moving forward and waiting all at once. Other than this: It's a fine place to be, this middle place. It's like lukewarm water or an unscheduled weekend. We don't do anything. We're just here. Talking about what we could do, what we should do, all the while, sitting and waiting for something to happen. We wait and plan with no real concept of what our future holds and thus, no real conviction for anything we talk about putting into action.


But I am a doer, a fixer. I like to check things off lists and start fresh each day. And I keep wondering lately if I'm doing something wrong as I wait and plan and wait for the need for these carefully laid plans. If nothing else, it seems I am supposed to be learning patience from all of this. But at this point, shouldn't there be more?