This time, then.

I am looking sad here, but not because I am sad. Only because my ribs were so terribly sore, and I couldn't get them into the bathwater to soothe them. See? The rubber ducky is already on the side of the tub, ready for bathtime. It was, in essence, a time of hope. Can't you see the jest on my face, beneath the fake frown? And there's Charlotte, right there in the picture, vital and alive. Probably squirming while the shutter clicked, her little heart pounding away, and me never knowing how fast her clock was ticking. What It was like:

For many nights, I sat at my sewing machine. I was sewing tiny little edges onto little, 4x5 little squares of flannel.
Baby wipes.

To be washed and re-used.

The most boring, dreadful sewing project I've ever done, but worth it, I thought.

I mixed up a ceramic soap-pump full of a mixture I'd read about-- water, olive oil, lavendar, and a few drops of soap to mix it up-- and set it on the changing table.

I washed my diapers 3 times in hot water, to help them to reach their best absorbancy.

I cut all the tags out of the baby clothes, carefully, with tiny nail scissors. The tags might irritate the baby's skin. I folded the clothes, lovingly, and put them into the drawers. There is a photograph of Greg in the nursery, while I am doing this, holding a baby doll in the baby Bjorn. He is smiling.

I put water, with vinegar in it, into my diaper pail. I set it up next to the changing table, with the fluffy diapers, and the tiny, clean, tag-free onesies, and the wipes, and the solution. I smoothed the soft, hand-made gingham mattress cover, and moved the soft, cotton mat over slightly, to center it.

Everything was ready.

I laid down in bed, my book resting on my swollen globe of a belly. My ribs ached from the tiny feet that strummed them all day. Periodically, my book jumped, the inhabitant below shifting for her evening calisthenics. It would only be a matter of time.