35

I think I'm going to raise this one for Cirque du Soleil. Shes already quite the tumbler, and I think if we trained her from a young age, like 4 or 5 weeks, she could be that star of the show that gets tossed through the air and basically flies. Then again, since she likes to kick and roll and punch so much, maybe she'd be better suited as a fighter, like Layla Ali or someone of the sort. Either way, she's destined for physical greatness. Or street yard brawls.

I can hardly believe that I'm 35 weeks pregnant. That's, like, pregnant. Very pregnant. For reals. So exciting! Yet, so, so terrifying! Every time Alex and I start to chatter about the birth, I get diarrhea. And then I think about how diarrhea is one of the symptoms of early labor. So then I get thinking about the power of thinking. In other words, when we mention something about the hospital, or maternity leave, and my stomach starts to churn, I now know to change the topic. Quickly. And be prepared to run to the restroom.

I keep thinking about what my mother must have been like at this stage when she was pregnant with me. I hear stories about when she was pregnant with my brother. At 32 years old, she had never even held a baby before. Or so the story goes. She flew out to Indiana to visit my Aunt Carol, who had just birthed cousin Ben, to practice holding a baby, learn to change diapers, and see what this motherhood thing was all about. Granted, she only had about 10 more weeks to go herself before Brian was due. But with me she was 38, she'd already raised a son to six years old, had another son, a baby who died at 5 months, and I was her first since the tragic loss, and the first girl. I've got to imagine that came with a lot of emotional baggage. My dad's memory is not only a bit dull for these sorts of details, but also biased. As is everyone's. Sometimes I like to think that's why I keep a blog. A diary can be written with a slightly too personal tone. By because I know there's a possibility others are reading may thoughts here, I can censor them enough that they would be appropriate for my daughter to read well into the future. If for some reason I'm not here to share all these experiences with her myself. One of my greatest regrets is that I have nothing to read from my mom's perspective. I always hold out that maybe there is a letter tucked away to me somewhere. But there wasn't one for my 21st birthday. The wasnt one for my college graduation. Not for getting engaged, married, or pregnant. Not for graduate school. And I'm assuming not for the birth of my first child. A daughter. I can fantasize all I want about what she would say to me, how she would be as my mother and as a new grandmother. But I'll ever learn her perspective about what it was like to be pregnant for the first time. What she feared about labor. The things my dad did to support her as a new mom. What she wished someone would have told her. Advice for raising a girl. Or how to balance both someone else's needs and your own. I don't get to ask all those questions, and when I do ask them of others, I know I get a very skewed, one-sided view of how they perceived my mom to be. I'd like to think that I would have one of the clearest, most accurate pictures of her. Then again, that's just another party of the fantasy.

On a totally tangential note, I go to the OB tomorrow. To get a strep B test. Which means a Q-tip up my butt. Uncool.

This is what 35 weeks is looking like. I actually feel better this week than I did those couple weeks when my hips were killing me.

And more pictures of the nursery, because Alex and I just adore it ...