The possibility of three has resided in the back of my mind since Noah was born.
Three.
Perhaps because I am one of three. Perhaps because I love the two I have more than I knew was possible. Perhaps because I somehow forgot how miserably sick I was when pregnant with Noah, confirming my own suspicions that perhaps I am certifiably insanse, because I do remember vowing that I would never, ever forget that.
Three.
Nine days after #1 turned 3 and three days before #2 turned 2, I demanded that Trevor run to Safeway to buy me The Test. It was 9 o'clock at night. I wasn't even late yet. But I knew. The way only a pregnant woman's boobs know. And so he went, returned with The Test, and I dropped trow and did what I was supposed to do.
One minute later, what I already knew suddenly became true.
Three.
All of my plans of documenting our summer adventures - of church camp and time with cousins and swimming and dirt piles and all things California, like Disneyland, the beach, Knott's Berry Farm, an enormous science center, and of course, more Disneyland - fell to the way side and this one fell to her knees.
Because, you see, Three has been a force to be reckoned with. Three has knocked this mama on her big fat behind. Nausea and vomiting and exhaustion have taken on whole new proportions. Sometimes I have thought I might not make it. Dramatic, but true. All the while, there have been lives to take care of and students to teach and life goes on whether you need to puke your guts out or not.
And today, we are still standing, Three and I. Which I suppose is all you can ask for sometimes.
And I love Three. Already. Which scares the begeezus out of me, but what can you do?
'Cause this is Three. At 12 weeks.
And this is Three at 16 1/2 weeks
And a week from today, Three will become a He or a She to us (my hunch is He...).
And I pray that five months from now, Three will join us, safely and soundly, as the Smith Grand Finale.
Three.
The encore.
The caboose.
The fat lady has sung.
