As I write this, my sister is getting ready to go to the hospital to deliver the twins. (!!!!!)
She is 39 weeks pregnant with twins. She is the shit and is apparently meant to carry multiple babies like it is no big deal. I swear I only heard her complain ((And by complain I mean actually mention the fact that she’s carrying, like, 14 lbs of baby and she might be getting tired of it.)) maybe once this whole pregnancy. I am so proud of her.
Yesterday, after they had scheduled her induction for this morning, she asked me, “What should I do with my last day?”
I told her to do the things that require quiet and/or time, like reading or taking a reeeeaaaalllly long shower. And to make sure to cuddle with John. And not to waste her time doing mundane things like chores.
It got me thinking about what I wish I had done with my “last day” before the Littlest Brewster’s arrival.
I know what I wish I hadn’t done: work! I was so hell bent on not being one of those women who treats pregnancy like an affliction that I worked, full time, up until the day I delivered. And you know what? That was stupid. ((I mean, yes, I am a bad ass and all for working full time when I was over 40 weeks pregnant, but did I really need confirmation of my bad ass status?))
I wish that I had known it was my last day. I wish DB and I had taken the day off work and just hung out and enjoy the last time that it would ever be just the two of us. I wish we had gone out for a romantic dinner. I wish we had taken a nap together. I wish I had known.
But I didn’t know. And so I worked. And then when my water broke and I tried to go have one last “Just the two of us” cuddle with DB, I was too excited and nervous and scared to really cherish it.
So Jessie and John, I hope you enjoyed yesterday. I hope today goes super smoothly for you and that your birth is everything you hoped it would be. I hope my niece(s) and/or nephew(s) are so healthy they use them as poster babies for the maternity ward.
Bring on the Metta squared!