It's Saturday night and I am showered and pajamaed and cozy under a warm quilt that was handmade for us as an engagement present (thanks Nina!). My husband is dozing on the couch with our little girl sleeping on his chest. We have a Christmas tree casting soft light, and a new t.v. which both make the living room cozier, for better and worse, respectively.
She is not even a month old and it's hard to remember the rhythm of my days before her. Now it's defined by feedings every couple hours, the regular diaper changes, the bounces and sways of soothing her. I realized sitting here that I find it really difficult to imagine being pregnant. It wasn't that long ago. And when pregnant I remember it was so hard to imagine being anything but pregnant. I thought I'd feel those kicks forever. I thought it would always be hard to get out of bed, that I would always pee myself when I coughed too much, that I would always wear my husband's shirts.
It is sad to have that memory fade, and I am glad I wrote here all the details. And of course a bigger gift is in its place. She is just the sweetest little creature I could have ever imagined.
And I could adopt Gabe's outlook when I told him I couldn't remember what having that big belly felt like: he shrugged his shoulders and said 'I guess we'll just have to do it again'.
p.s. No, there will be no Irish twins.
p.p.s. Below is the last picture of me pregnant. It was taken about 8 hours into labor on November 22nd.