Yesterday I washed one more new, little pack of onesies. These ones – soft yellow stripes, gentle gray polka dots, and one with a simple-shaped little elephant.
They were carefully folded then added, in almost reverent anticipation, to the tupperware of items waiting for Summer’s arrival – the quilt from Jill, the boppy, the moccasins from Blaire, the other recently washed and folded items (delicate, small sundresses worn, in turn, by Summer’s older sisters; the tiny, striped bunny jammies Goldie picked out for Summer to wear home from the hospital; the pink and yellow bee onesies; the new little outfits from near-life-long friend Jessica; the four, perfect, light-weight, large swaddling blankets I recently discovered).
Being at this point – where birth is “expected” a mere four and a half weeks from now, where it seems not only reasonable to be washing, folding, and readying; but pretty near time to be serious about checking the car seat’s condition, preregistering at the hospital, bringing out the cradle, and buying newborn diapers – being here is . . . well, I don’t know what it is exactly. It’s a wild, intense and conflicting place to go about existing; pretending to be a normal person; pretending not to be a jumble of excitement and fear and hope and worry; pretending I’m not on the verge of something that will turn life wholly new. Again.
I’ve nearly done my part in getting this little mortal body ready for Summer. I’ve turned the corner and now, off in the distance – not quite close enough to sprint yet, but close – I see the finish line. It’s there. Just ahead. Finally. Only . . . as I get closer and closer, I suddenly remember something. Something I’d forgotten for that brief spell when getting Summer here was all there was: that the finish line . . . is really another starting line. Soon, I’ll cross it – to cheers and congratulations. Then, the gun will sound, and the race will be on again.
When people question my decision to add another child to our family, it’s easy to pass it off with a light and joking, “Eh, what’s one more at this point?” And there is some truth to that. One more little body to dress each day? One more set of hands to wash? One more person to tuck in bed? Seven bowls instead of six? That’s all fine. We can do that.
But what’s one more really? Ohhhh. I almost feel like crying. I am so excited . . . and so scared . . . because I’ll tell you the real answer to that question: one more is everything. And adding an entire new everything is a tremendously beautiful and terrifying; big and overwhelming thing to do.
Not much longer now my little Summer. We’re on the straightaway of the last lap. We’ll see each other at the finish line. And . . . we’ll set off running again.