Twenty-eight days. No, not the movie where Sandra Bullock plays a newspaper columnist who enters a drug and alcohol clinic, though L and I will finally be able to partake in a celebratory glass of champagne together.
We’re four weeks away from being a party of five: two adults, a random-but-awesome 5-year-old, a babbling almost 2-year-old, and a blob of a newborn. I mean, let’s be realistic here; there’s not much to a newborn besides being a blob. They’re not even that cute despite everyone always oohing and aahing about “how cute he/she is.” Total lies. You’re not gonna hurt my feelings, and I know you’re saying the same thing to every single person you know who has a newborn. And what’s worse is when they give you the old, “Oh he looks just like you!” line. Like thanks, you’re telling me I look like a newborn, and all newborns look roughly the same—squished faces, chubby arms/legs, misshaped heads. That’s really what I look like?
But in all seriousness, the baby is doing well. I went to the ultrasound a week and a half ago and he was being a bit stubborn, but the tech confirmed it was still a boy by pointing out something that resembled maybe testicles? The heart, hands, feet and head are really the only features I can truly recognize.
He weighed in at 4 pounds, 15 ounces—similar to what the other two were at the same time. He’s currently the size of a honeydew, which I always remove from a fruit salad.
We still haven’t packed our hospital bags, and it’s looking like I’ll be painting the kids’ rooms this weekend, prepping for the impending arrival of No. 3 and the risky move of putting N and G together in the same living quarters. It’s hard to imagine right now because they still get after each other pretty good on a daily basis, but that’s what brothers do.
Like the first two, we’ll try getting baby to sleep in his crib from the outset. We’re not co-sleepers (and to those of you that are, good on you, but we like the space our king-size bed provides the two of us). N has been crawling into bed with us at 5 in the morning every day for the past few weeks, but I’m guessing once he’s got dibs on top bunk, he’ll never want to leave.
That reminds me, we’ve gotta order the bunk bed. Like the name, which we still don’t have, we’ve been scouring the Internet for bunk beds, looking at Ikea (every adults favorite picture-instruction-guide megastore), Wayfair, Overstock, Target, Walmart—basically the entire world—trying to find a bed with good reviews at a decent price point. Sure, we can go to Pottery Barn and spend an arm and a leg, but I like my limbs. We’re going to order one next week, after my next paycheck comes in. Ahhh, the American Dream, living check to check while trying to make sure your kids are taken care of and have everything they need.
Four weeks. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like: the anticipation, the unknown, the sleepless nights. I’m ready! L wants some champagne (and me, too), so she’s ready. Maybe we’ll start setting the alarm clock every two hours to prep ourselves. Or we’ll just enjoy the heck out of the sleep we get until the big day.