My little girl is due in two weeks. Meaning she could come any day now. Also meaning I am planning on starting all homeopathic wivestales that theoretically induce labor as of this evening.

This week has been one where I have felt very blessed by the friends and acquaintances in my life. My house is bursting with fresh flowers that have been given to me all week long. A chair in our living room is covered in gifts that I need to write thank-you notes for. My email inbox is overflowing with messages from people who are thinking of us, praying for us, and telling me to hang in there for the next few miserable days until she arrives. I am truly blessed.

A few months ago, our pastor called Penny our “Blessing Baby” when referring to her in conversation. I found it moderately cheesy, but in actuality she really, truly is. Even yesterday as I moaned to Matt about how sore I was, I still got giddy thinking about how she is now fully formed – fully ready to live in the outside world. Perfectly knit together. And more Matt for me to love.

I want her so badly. I have wanted her so badly since what feels like forever ago. I am eager to have her radically change my life. I am ready for her to stress me out. I am dying to be her mama and take care of her every need. I can’t wait to see what she accomplishes in her life and how she changes the world.

And as I write all of this I am astonished by what I’m saying. I’m floored that I have become this person – this person who just cannot wait to go through labor and delivery and get to the other side where I’m holding my tiny baby girl in my arms. I never thought I would be this person. I never thought I’d admit it even if I became this person. Although, I still wouldn’t be all that disappointed if a puppy came out instead.

While I’m incredibly impatient and can hardly go ten minutes without thinking “WHEN THE FLIP IS SHE GOING TO MAKE HER APPEARANCE, ALREADY!?!” I am trying to kick back and enjoy the last two weeks of our lives as we know them. I’m trying to get and keep my house in order. I’m trying to look at Matt as my best friend and partner in crime, not just my Baby Daddy. I’m trying not to kill the cat for making me have to vacuum daily.

But I sure wouldn’t mind if the next two weeks flew by in double time.

As I mentioned the last time I wrote, the past few weeks have been sort of busy. We did a lot of traveling in April, then came home to have two weeks of drywallers in our house followed by a week and a half of guests. And then there was the Tennessee Flood of 2010. Mixed in among all of that were trips to Home Depot to fix up other parts of our house, trips to the midwife, and more social engagements than I think I’ve had in the past five years.

Which meant Berlin spent a lot of time sleeping on her bed all alone.

After I dropped my mom off at the airport last Saturday morning, it was as if Berlin got a new lease on life and she’s been euphoric ever since. We were home most of the weekend, and while running around a bit this week, at least one of us has been home at almost any given time since then. Berlin’s getting evening fetch with her dad again, something she had gone weeks without. And she has morning snuggles with her mom, something that was traded in for rushed early mornings when I needed to be up to let the drywallers in.

In fact Berlin’s been so happy over the past few days that she appears to have sprained a leg while playing too hard outside. It looks really painful, yet her tail is wagging frenetically because to her, life seems to be back to normal! It’s just the four of us in the house again! So she spends her days randomly going in and out of her dog door – inside to snuggle for a while, outside to play. And she couldn’t be happier.

They say you’re supposed to prepare your pets for your baby’s arrival so that they don’t become territorial or aggressive. I’m not at all worried about that; Berlin doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. But I am going to be sad to see my happy girl return to long days sleeping on her bed from lack of attention.

We have about five and a half weeks (give or take a couple days) left of this life that we know so well before it all radically changes. Now that my nesting urge seems to be calming down a bit, I just want to spend each day soaking in the normalcy. Until we have a new normal defined for us.

As I mentioned earlier, my mom is coming out to visit next Monday and is staying for a week. We’ve had this on the calendar for a few months now, and the anticipation is totally killing me. I always look forward to visits from my parents, but this visit is different for a few reasons.

See, I’ve been pregnant for nine out of the past twelve months. Matt and I moved to Nashville just 15 days shy of a year ago, unpacked boxes in our temporary apartment, hung our pajamas together, and took that life changing pregnancy test. Two months of my first pregnancy went by, and then my mom flew out to be with me during the hardest week of my life. Her visit last July changed everything about our relationship. Up until then, she was my mom, and I loved her. But when she came out to Tennessee to help me through my miscarriage, suddenly her MOMHOOD struck me like never before. All those years of hearing her tell me to “drive safely!” while I rolled my eyes came flooding back, and suddenly I realized A) what it feels like to be a mother, B) how the last thing a mother ever wants is for her child to hurt, and C) what it’s like for a mother to lose a child you loved more than life itself. My mom now totally made sense.

I’m not sure she realizes it, but since then I’ve opened up to her in ways I never had before. I’ve told her things I haven’t told anyone else (other than Matt – sorry, Mom, but you would want me to be honest with my husband, I’m sure). I’ve gone to her to cry instead of the people I might have otherwise gone to. In the past year, I have finally taken advantage of her motherhood the way she had offered it to me for years.

People often ask me if it’s hard living far from family, and the biggest thing I miss is that I would have loved to share the past seven months of this pregnancy with my mom… in person. Because I’ve realized just how much I need her to mother me… at age 27. I’ve realized how much I want to be a mom just like her. And a mother-in-law just like her. And a grandmother just like her. I want to be like my mom.

So she’s coming out next Monday, and for a full week we’ll be able to live out pregnancy together the way that I’ve wanted to for the nine months of this past year that I was pregnant. We’ll shop and clean and daydream about Penny together. She’ll give me tips and advice, and bemoan raising daughters, and I’ll likely cry a lot when I voice my fears and concerns to her. And I will so enjoy just soaking up her motherhood. It will be such a great time of bonding, but it will also be a time of closure and healing. Last time she came alone to visit us, she was here to mother me in a dark place. And this time, she’s here to celebrate with me.

All of this to say, I love my mom. And yet again in my life, God has shown me that I will face tough stuff ahead, but there is so much to celebrate. New life, green grass, faithful friends, a man I admire, creme brulee, a puppy romping in her backyard, and fresh beginnings. And the best daggone mom in the world.

Today I was interviewed by The Tennessean for an article that is coming out in Sunday’s paper on midwifery in Tennessee. How was I found, you wonder? Because I constantly open my big fat mouth and splurt about midwives all over the internets. For fun.

I am sooooo excited about this article (the second newspaper article I’ve been interviewed for… EVER!) because I really enjoy reading this health reporter’s columns as she’s very fair and balanced. And I think we could all use a bit more health reporting that is balanced. Something along the lines of OMG! SWINE FLU = THE APOCALYPSE!

Plus I love that she’s bringing attention to midwifery – a subject that sadly very few women know anything about. I know that I personally knew nothing about midwifery until I started doing my own research because it’s just not in the public eye.

At any rate, this is all falling on the week that we returned from a fun trip to the East Coast. Meaning I had no food in the house and the house was a mess. We had just finished painting the kitchen floor, so the kitchen was ripped apart. And the drywall for the upstairs gets delivered tomorrow morning with the crew right behind ready to start working. Tomorrow morning Matt has his board certification exam, which is just a tiny little bit important. Meaning if he passes he gets a nice fat raise. And the letters behind his name will now say “M.A.  B.C.B.A.”

Then we’ve got Matt’s climbing buddy coming in from Massachusetts on Saturday to go rock climbing for the weekend, and my mom arrives on Monday morning to hang out with me for a week. Which means I will frantically clean every nook and cranny of my house only to have her arrive and clean it all much better than I did the first time. And I will love and adore her for it.

And somewhere in there, I need to finish the nursery because the photographer from The Tennessean will be coming by to take a picture. Of me. At seven months pregnant and heavy enough to be a mean and competitive contestant on The Biggest Loser.

Strangely enough, all of this hectic activity is actually really good for me. I work best under tight deadlines, and frankly get a rush from anything that feels a little bit like a high school theatrical production.

But if I completely crash and forget to pick my mom up from the airport on Monday morning, can someone please tell her it was all because I opened my big fat mouth? She’ll roll her eyes and understand.

A few years ago, after much debating, my parents decided to keep the house they had lived in nearly my entire life, but renovate it throughout. They figured that in their mid-fifties it might be nice to have things like, oh, say… central air. And a fridge that wasn’t puke yellow and from 1989.

Projects like installing central air and wood floors throughout your house are a bit of a pain, but nothing is as much of a pain as knocking down a wall in your kitchen, gutting it, and putting in a new kitchen from the ground up. This I know from experience, although my parent’s budget and timeline was far different than ours. They hired an awesome contractor and over the span of several months lived in their finished basement while the kitchen was being renovated. For those many months, they referred to the room in the finished basement as “The Studio” and became well accustomed to cooking with a toaster and microwave and living out of a dorm-sized fridge.

This past weekend, we blocked off our own kitchen to finally get around to painting the wood floors. Because we didn’t want to push our luck, we decided to plan the painting with the most conservative of timelines including two full days between coats for optimal drying time. Which meant that I had 5 days worth of food to plan out in advance with a toaster oven and basement fridge as my only options.

I spent much of Friday at the grocery store and in the kitchen making up a whole host of sandwiches, cutting up cucumbers and summer squash and marinating chicken that could be grilled outside. We’re on day 4 of living without a kitchen, and I’ll be honest, the sandwiches are getting old. Same for washing our dirty dishes in the bathroom sink. And going outside and around to the back of the house to get milk from the basement fridge.

Here’s what our dining room currently looks like with a mattress blocking off the door to the kitchen and the dining room table covered with our picnic staples.

From Daily Daguerreotype

And here’s the kitchen floor drying.

From Daily Daguerreotype

After five days of living like this, I honestly cannot imagine how my parents lived for months on end in The Studio. But then again, our finished project is nothing like theirs.

From Daily Daguerreotype

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that every time I go to my mom’s house I beg to cook a meal, and the entire time I talk to my pretend audience as if I’m a Food Network chef.

One lesson I learned early on in marriage, and the thing I tell people whenever they (shockingly) ask me for marital advice is not to nag one’s husband. Matt is a typical stubborn Irish Mick, and will actually dig his heels in deeper if he gets the feeling he’s being nagged. Although he doesn’t pick up on passive-aggressive manipulative nagging too quickly, he doesn’t respond to it either. So all in all I’ve learned it’s better to just let him do his thing and be responsible for whatever positive or negative consequences might occur.

Perhaps this leaves me open to his sometimes ill behavior reflecting poorly on me, but I can deal with that. My grandmother is horrified that I don’t iron his dress shirts for him, so I’m used to letting people down.

On the other hand, I have found that when I simply ask Matt or remind him about tasks that are a given (like could he please take out the trash?), he hops right up and does them happily. It’s all about determining which things are worth arguing over and which things are not, and then making sure the things I really care about mutually transition into “givens.”

One thing I really cared about when I married Matt was the diligent writing of thankyou notes. Now, I was raised a proper New Englander and was taught to write thankyou notes at a young age. I’ve been writing them ever since, in fact my sisters and I continue to exchange thankyou notes and hostess gifts whenever we get together. (Although I must admit they are MUCH better at remembering and much prompter in the sending of said thankyou notes than I am.) Frankly, even after all these years of writing thankyou notes, I still really enjoy how relaxing it is to sit down with a box of cards and write out a note to a kind and generous person, despite my atrocious handwriting – the brunt of many a family joke.

Last week Matt sat down to write out the thankyou notes to his coworkers for the very generous shower gifts they gave him. He whipped them right up without a problem and was done in no time. Then this afternoon I reminded him that he still had birthday thankyou notes to write, so he hopped right up and went to my card basket to retrieve some blank cards and a pen.

“I think we’re out of cards.”

How can this be, I thought? My proper New Englander mother is constantly sending me cards that she finds on clearance (including those somewhat strange purple baby shower cards you might have received in the mail from me) to keep my card supply stocked, and perhaps to keep reminding me of the importance of being polite. In all my days of thankyou note writing, I’ve never been without a spare card.

“Ok, I’ll pick some up next time I’m out.”

I was struck not only by the generosity of our friends being too fast for my thankyou note supply to keep up, but also by how crestfallen Matt appeared at not being able to complete his task. It will hover over his head like a dark cloud until I have supplied him with some new cards.

Perhaps now when people ask my marital advice, instead of telling them not to nag their husband, I’ll tell them to marry a person who will quickly prioritize and care about the things that matter to you. The boy cares about thankyou notes because it matters to me. And that’s the quickest route to a nag-free relationship, methinks.

That and letting him buy a motorcyle. Oh Matt, n0t nagging, but just a reminder to up your life insurance policy.