#letsdothis

(The Samsonite one is for my stuff, the Deux Lux striped rolling bag is for Indy's stuff, and will double as my hospital bag).

The plan was to start packing at the start of this week, but this little blip proved slightly time-consuming and prevented me from doing it until…today. Which is actually fine, considering that only about ten things in my closet actually fit me, so it's not like I have zillions of options to choose from. Still, getting two months' worth of my stuff into a single suitcase (the other one is already filled with clothing and toys for my son) is…a challenge.

I hate the term "push present." So much that I found it unbearable to type into the title of this post unless I put a little dash in there. It gives me the icks, what I can I say?

It's just so unnecessarily...evocative. I do not want to think about pushing. Not until I actually have to do it, and then I'd really rather not think about it either. I love how everyone says "Oh, you forget about the pain a few months after you have your child; that's what makes it possible for you to have another one." Nope. I want to have another child for lots of reasons, but "because I've forgotten the pain" is not among them. I remember the pain extremely well.

(I also want to send a little shout-out "you're sweet, thank you" to all the second-time moms I've spoken to lately who have assured me that "Oh no, it's so much easier the second time…much quicker and much less painful." I am fairly certain that all of you are lying and just trying to make me less freaked out, but the sentiment is appreciated, and I'm happy to indulge in a little fantasy.)

I remember, when our son was just a few months old and we were right in the thick of the never-have-a-second-to-sit-down/take-our-eyes-off-of-our-child/sleep part of parenting, thinking how much I was looking forward to the day when we'd be able to all sit quietly in the living room with some music on, reading. Some of my favorite memories of growing up are doing just that - sitting with my parents on a porch in Maine, or on a beach somewhere, or just in our living room, all with our books. Each doing our own thing, but together.

I talk a lot about this sort of desperation I (and most mothers, I think) have to hold on to every second of these early days, these days when we're still our children's best friends, when they don't just tolerate us but actually want to cuddle up next to us, when it takes nothing more than a really cool-looking worm to make them more excited than you thought a person could possibly be…but there are definitely things on the way that I'm excited about, too.

The other night, the quiet-reading-in-the-presence-of-my-child thing happened for what I think was the very first time. I was sitting on the couch, Kendrick was playing music on his computer, and suddenly I realized: oh my god. Total peace. Indy was sitting on the other side of the couch, paging through a picture book, calm and happy and in his own world. The dogs were not being lunatics for the first time in their lives. And so I picked up my iPad, and sat down to finish The Goldfinch (which I know I announced I was finishing two weeks ago, but I keep stalling - it's just such a weirdly hard book to read more than a few pages of at a time; oof, all that anxiety), and it was amazing: the coziest, most content feeling ever.