My due date is three months away (give or take).
Never has anything seemed so imminent and, yet, so far away. For some reason when I tell people I'm due in February, even a couple of months ago, the response is always, "That's so soon!" This reaction always surprises me because I have always felt February to be the distant future. Even now - "three months" - it seems like quite a long time.
But my body is telling me it's not as long as I think it is. Somehow, three months away, and I'm already having trouble getting off of the couch. My ever-sensitive husband is already singing "Baby Beluga" to me as he watches me attempt to sit up. And I already got light-headed trying to stand up while holding my 16-month-old son (who should totally be walking by now . . . but, alas, five steps does not get him very far).
And after reading through an entire book on birthing, I feel like I could just pop this baby out tomorrow.
And then I remember. Three months. Three more months of this belly expanding past the "cute pregnancy stage" into the "Oh my goodness, when are you due?!" stage. Three more months of rolling myself off the sofa. Three more months of potty breaks and endless hunger.
Three more months to cherish time with my two eldest and my wonderful husband before our life, our sleep-schedule, and our routine revolves, once again, around a little being weighing less than ten pounds (or let's hope). Three more months until I get to meet this squirmy, wiggly little child.
I can hardly wait. And yet, three months sounds good.