CityMama™

Yet another way she shows me how extraordinary she is

She slips into our bed as she always has, every morning, since she could figure out how to climb out of her crib.

She's not The Snuggly One, so she doesn't press her body into me and tuck her knees up onto my hip like her little sister does. She just needs to be between J. and me, under the covers, with enough space to raise her arm to suck her thumb.

Except that these days, she lays down facing me, and I feel her warm little hand creeping quietly towards me, landing somewhere on my expanding stomach until it settles into its resting place just under my belly button, right where this baby likes to park his feet.

A kick. Or two.

Then ever so softly—and every morning—I hear her say, "I love you, Bundle. I'm your BIG, big sister," just in case he is ever confused about who is there.

Because she is, and has always been, caring and considerate like that.

Pregnant nine years after the first time? Things are different and the same.

J. and walked into a baby store the other day just for kicks. We took a look at the strollers, or what we thought were strollers—we really couldn't tell—and walked right out. My how things have changed since we were pregnant with Bunny nine years ago. Back then, strollers looked like strollers. Car seats looked like car seats. Now, strollers look like something that broke off the International Space Station. And cost about as much. What's with all the round? I just want to haul my boy around safely, not launch him into space moments before my planet's destruction.

It's funny, by the time I was half-way done being pregnant with Bunny (I'm a little past that now with The Bundle), our nursery was pretty much ready to go. I had quite an assortment of gear (mostly from an awesome Craigslist score), and my mom made sure we had piles of clothes, blankets, socks, and hats. I also have to chuckle when I think about all the stuff I bought that I didn't really need. Oh, how the baby industry preys on the insecurities of a first-time parent.

This time around, we have the crib (which was my crib from when I was a baby. I wrote about its history in 2005.), my suddenly completely dated-looking Nojo sling (which Wallie especially loved so I've never been able to give it up), and a bassinette, but nothing else because we gave everything away. And all the sweet, special, tiny clothes that I have stored because I couldn't part with them? Are for girls.

Three, it's the magic number

There's a reason why:

I've been so tired lately.

You didn't see me at any BlogHer '10 parties.

I haven't felt well enough to run until just a few days ago.

I've been declining your lunch/dinner/tea invitations or leaving your parties early or not eating your delicious food or drinking your equally delicious booze.

And it's this: