Mary talks to my tummy daily giving play-by-play accounts to the baby, "You're in the swimming pool baby. You're soaking wet." "Mom is eating baby. Here comes your food!" "You have the seat belt over you baby. You're safe in there." She consistently refers to the baby as "he." When Luke stopped her and asked, "Are you sure it's a 'he,' or could it be a girl?" she replied, "Oh no dad. I am DEFINITELY sure it's a boy...maybe." Beth and Madeleine like to follow along with the week-by-week development. At week 9 we read, 'This week your baby is the size of a grape," and Beth noted, "Don't grapes come in all different sizes??" She would like to name the baby something that starts with a B so she won't be the only one without an M name anymore, and favors "Bonnie" if it's a girl. Madeleine is admittedly apprehensive about having more little people around here ("Two little sisters can be hard enough!") but she is a good sport, a great helper, and already in love with the baby.
Meanwhile, I can track a scent like a bloodhound, gag on my favorite foods, and feel like I could sleep 12 hours a day at least if only the day would let me. Nothing but perfectly normal bizarre behaviors for this stage of the game, and Luke is taking very good care of me. On my better days I enjoy complimenting myself on such achievements as managing to get to the bank AND the grocery store in the same day. On my bad days I am grateful to have a good reason for a bad day.
I marvel at the wisdom with which Heavenly Father guides our lives. So often I am certain that I know what I need, believing that I am in charge around here, and He patiently albeit sometimes painfully reminds me that He knows a little bit more about the grand scheme of things than I do. I trust Him, and I thank Him for having blessed me with the things I need and want the most, just when I least expected it.
