Tread lightly, for you tread, not exactly on our dreams, but on our fears which are more prevalent. I have had several friends comment on their sympathy for Andrew during these final days. They mention things like having known the "wrath" of pregnant women or having experienced their "craziness." Last night as I cried over nothing, very precisely, crying because nothing was happening, Andrew, 9 months wiser, held me and said, "Maybe you're experiencing an increase in hormones because your body is getting ready to go into labour."
He understood. Ah, but he still underestimates me. Today, as we surveyed the nest and the hard work we've done, Andrew asked after the location of several baby-related items. Where, he asked, were the clothes? How was he to know how to dress the baby, he asked? He then, proceeded in mock-panic to wonder how he could manage the simplest of baby care tasks. What should she wear? How was he to know what was appropriate?
"I'm not sure," I answered, "the books say to dress the baby in as many layers as you're wearing plus one more."
"As many layers as I wear? Or as many you wear?" He asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I've wondered about that. It took me a long time to pack our hospital bag."
Laughing, Andrew said, "Is it because you imagine that when you pull out the clothes, the nurses will gasp in horror and say, 'Surely, you're not putting her in that?'" He then continued to set the scene. These nurses would laugh or whisper to one another, "Did you see what she thought of putting the baby in? She's an unfit mother." He laughed and looked up at me.
"Wait. Why are you crying?" he asked.