I’ve been pregnant a lot of times, but I cringe at nearly every picture we have of my swollen, life growing self.  I have several really flattering ones of me sleeping in the passenger seat of our van, belly bulging, head tilted back, mouth open, during our most recent road trip.  Lovely.  And there are a few hurried snap shots taken right before we’ve rushed off to the hospital with a couple of our babies.

But this time I’m quite certain I’m never going to do this again.  This is the last time I’m going to harbor a whole other being, to give it a beginning, to share my space so completely. The last time I’ll feel a baby stretch and push and try out new limbs, or feel the excitement and anticipation of meeting my little person who has become so familiar.  This is a pretty amazing, miraculous thing my body can do, and I’ve done it over and over because I know that when it comes down to it, there isn’t anything more important or more valuable that I could do.  Saying I’m thankful to be a mother is an understatement.  In so many ways I feel like I was born when my first baby was born and every one has taught me more about who I am, what our family can be, and what life is really about than I could have learned any other way.

I wanted some way to remember the beautiful part — so we braved the mosquitoes in the warm evening light and Barry took some pictures we could treasure.

And now I’m counting the minutes.  The end is the hardest part because there is so much uncertainty, so much wondering and waiting.