Three years ago today, I was a day past my due date. My baby girl was still snug in my belly, kicking my side and hiccuping. I weighed 30 pounds on top of my normal weight, and was exhausted from carrying two bodies.
October 8, 2011 was a Saturday. I declined an invite to a lunch out with friends because all I really wanted to do was sleep. I rested in a bed toppling over with pillows; Howard was at the other end. Reading, napping, and refolding sheets took up most of the afternoon. (Side-note: my linen closet will never be more organized than it was then.)
On the night of my due date, I rubbed my belly and looked down the hall at the empty nursery. The crib was in view. Trying to envision having a child there seemed too surreal at that moment in time.
My once strong fears of giving birth strangely subsided the closer I got to the due date. I was unsure of my readiness all the days leading up to it. Once it came, however, that all changed. I was ready to meet her and get the whole motherhood gig rolling. I remember trying to find a balance between savoring the experience of pregnancy to being ready to hold her in my arms.
That due date, like so many days of our lives, was one in which I eagerly waited for, and used as a highly anticipated deadline. But, it came…and passed. Linnea was born four days later on October 12. And we will celebrate her life on that day for every October 12 in the future. Yet, I have learned, the actual dates don’t seem to matter all that much.
They are all after all merely a number, and moments matter more.