That’s how far this pregnancy journey has taken me to term. Three days from my due date. I’ve never been this close to a due date before, and the anticipation, the holding pattern that is our lives, is exhausting and frustrating . . . and humbling.

No matter how many times I have extended to friends the trite “Don’t worry, baby will come when baby is ready,” now that it is me who is waiting, it seems there is no amount of comfort in those words. This late in the game, nothing eases the worry, the aches or pains, or the feeling of hurry up and wait.

The words offer no comfort when I think of my inability to walk normally or get up from a couch without aide. They offer no comfort when I experience the lack of properly fitting clothing or the late night leg cramps that can no longer be massaged away without help because I cannot reach my own leg.

The words offer no comfort when days upon days of early labor contractions have left my body sore and sensitive, seemingly stretched taut like a rubber band about to snap. They offer no comfort when sleeping is a chore because I am too hot to sleep, have become too large to find a comfortable position, or must make trips to the restroom too frequently.

But . . . but those words, despite their lack of comfort, are humbling because they are the truth. No matter how uncomfortable I feel, no matter how eager I am to meet our newest baby and leave this holding pattern that is our life right now, he will come when he is ready and not a moment sooner (barring medical intervention). In the face of discomfort and cramps and seemingly wearing the same maxi dresses over and over (and over) again, in the face of of exhaustion and pain and contractions that seemingly last for days on end, I must remember that this is not about me. This pregnancy is not about my life, my comfort, or my timeline–it’s about his. O’s. His life. His comfort. His timing.

When I remember this, I realize there is no amount of compromise that can be done to get him here sooner because I cannot, will not, compromise him for my own sake. When I remember this, when I remember that he is still healthy and whole within, it makes the waiting and the contracting and the discomfort and the frustration a little easier to manage. And, right now? That’s all I can ask for.

I had every intention of blogging throughout this pregnancy, but it just has not worked out that way.

First, school and pregnancy related fatigue got in the way. Then, the holidays accompanied the chaotic school schedule and compounded the pregnancy related fatigue. And, just as the holidays were left behind, my family and I embarked on an international move. To say this pregnancy has been filled with busy-ness would not be an understatement.

However, I have tried to consistently photograph my growing belly week-by-week, so I’m hoping this will be enough to later prove to my Miniest that I was truly invested in this pregnancy as I was with his older siblings’.

I’m nearing the end of this pregnancy already, and at times it feels like it has flown by while at other times it feels as if it cannot end soon enough. We’re all so eager to meet this new little person, you know?

His nursery is coming together, bottles and onesies have been purchased, and we have baby gear spilling out all over the place.

So . . . just please know that while I started out with good intentions and really want to blog daily, being so near the end of this pregnancy means that third trimester fatigue has set it.

- Eating dinner at 5 PM, then going to bed at 11 PM and waking up at 5:30 AM means that by 7 AM, I am starving.

- Miniest moves whenever he hears the minis’ or The Mister’s voice, music, or I am trying to sleep.

- Vanilla chai lattes are delicious ways to start the day, but an expensive habit.

- Leaving the house to prevent boredom means I’ll likely spend money. Or miss Skyping with The Mister. Both are bad things.

- Pregnancies that are easy suck out your brain. It’s true. This has, thus far, been my least complicated pregnancy and, yet, I am lucky to remember to dress in the morning.

- To-do lists are sanity savers. Except when I forget to update them . . . and end up at the same store three times in one day.

- Being the new kid is never easy–no matter how many times you’ve been “the new kid.”

- An empty house makes for a great gymnastics studio. It also means getting fussed at because every thump, bump, and blip echoes, so nothing goes unnoticed.

- Granny Smith apples are still the very best variety. Ever. Japan is SO missing out.

- Missing someone throws everything out of alignment. Routines, appetites, sleep patterns.

- Time slows down when you have something to look forward to, but goes by too quickly when you’re busy living your day-to-day.

- The healing powers of a fresh coat of nail polish, a small amount of retail therapy, or a late night chat session are underrated.

There’s normal and then there’s normal.

Normal consists of long days filled with house chores and computer time and procrastinating and chatting and e-mailing and short phone calls and trips to the gym and lingering touches and quick kisses.

Normal consists of long days filled with house chores and computer time and brief chats and quick e-mails and long phone calls and wondering when I’ll get a chance to work out . . . but without his company or any of the lingering touches or quick kisses that punctuate my normal days.

Normal consists of 8:30pm bed times for the minis, and finding he’s queued our favorite show and turned down the blankets so we can decompress together.

Normal consists of the occasionally extended bedtimes, and climbing into an empty bed with much too much space.

Normal consists of laundry picked up off the floor and bedsheets in constant need of straightening.

Normal consists of leaving that last pair of pajama pants he wore on the floor just a little bit longer because it’s almost like he’ll be home to wear them, and bedsheets that stay tucked in because there isn’t anyone on his side of the bed to kick them all over the place.

Normal consists of family dinners and recounts of the day’s activities–much laughter always accompanies these dinners.

Normal consists of family minus one dinners and recounts of the day’s activities. There isn’t much laughter, no one really lingers, and the minus one is hard to ignore.

Normal consists of Saturdays sleeping in, then spent on the go until dinner time. Normal consists of big breakfast Sundays with everyone in the kitchen, cartoons playing in the background, and lively conversation.

Normal consists of Saturdays started early, then spent on the go until dinner time because that minus one is still hard to ignore. Normal consists of Sunday breakfasts without the big production and lively conversation because I suck at making pancakes and the minis have no one to tease.

We live these two lives, these alternate realities, whenever he’s away. We strive for normal, but without fail, we revert to the other kind of normal; the kind of normal that passes for functioning, but isn’t quite living. It’s not as if we mean to, and it’s not as if we don’t try . . . but it’s also something that can’t seem to be helped, no matter how busy we make ourselves or how we attempt to go about business as usual.

And because I love how odd we are, I really miss normal.

In the midst of the new year chaos that inevitably follows the first day of January, I had intentions of reviving this blog. Obviously that did not go as planned.

You see, in addition to the regular chaos that a new year brings, we also received orders and had just under a month to prepare for the international move from Japan to Southern California. Of course, since we arrived, we have been busy non-stop with home preparations and school enrollments (the minis, not me; I’m taking a break) and finding doctors and and and and.

To say that we’ve only had one true day of rest would be an overstatement; most especially when one considers that day of “rest” was still filled with painting the family room. However, those duties–along with most other home related things–fell mostly on The Mister’s shoulders; he’s been like the Energizer Bunny of home improvement projects ever since he stepped foot into our home. From calling in professionals to fix loose roof tiles and paint our 18′ ceilings to personally assembling four rooms worth of furniture and doing major demo in the kitchen to make appliances fit, that man has not sat down for longer than an hour. If that.

Though the constant errands and boredom seems to have slightly made the minis even more crazed, they keep their craziness pretty well contained and try not to complain too much. Thank the powers that be! The frequent stops at Starbucks apparently helps, too.

As for the miniest, he’s trying out for the new Wheaties spokesperson spot. According to our new doctor (whose office plays Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac in the waiting area–love!), my fundal height measured in at 27cm when I was a few days shy of 24 weeks gestation. So . . . either miniest is going to be the next Paul Bunyan or I may have gestational diabetes. I have another appointment this week to double check all measurement and what not, so I’m hoping the measurement was a fluke. Of epic proportions, but a fluke nonetheless.

So. Yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to. How about you?

The Mister called the morning of my birthday from his office:

“Good morning.”
Good morning.
“How are you feeling?”
Fine, why?
“Yeah? You’re okay?”
Yes, why? Did you think I’d be depressed or something?
“I was a little depressed for a few days when I turned 30. I just don’t want to come home and find our kids in the bathtub.”
(laughing) What? You think I’m going to go all crazy depressed and drown our children because I’m 30 today?
“(laughing) Well, it happens.”
No, Baby, I’m good. I’m happy with my life. No bathtub horror stories here.

Everyone I know who has turned 30 has dreaded the day, felt a little depressed, or mourned the loss of their twenties.

I don’t feel that way. Not even a little. If anything, I feel grateful to be 30.

My life prior to meeting The Mister, who I have been with since a month before my 18th birthday, was not . . . well, it wasn’t the hardest life, but it was filled with harsh realities, a few tragedies, and a lot of poor life decisions. There were suicidal thoughts, emotional and mental breakdowns, and days where the depression threatened to overtake me. When I remember those days, when I remember the hurt and sadness and the lack of willpower to keep moving forward, how can I ever be anything but grateful for turning 30?

When I spoke to my Dad on my birthday, he reminded me of how far I have journeyed from the scared, damaged 13-year-old girl he and my Mom had to force to move in with them. At the time, my parents were certain I would not make it to see 18 if they did not remove me from the environment I was in . . . and when I remember that, I can only be grateful to have made it this far.

Besides, at 30, I have:

- a husband who kisses me awake every morning, makes me the perfect cup of tea without my asking, supports my dreams and book addiction, funds my creativity (woohoo! for new lenses), and tells me I’m beautiful and sexy even when I don’t see it myself.

- two awesome, beautiful, healthy, kickass minis who fill me with delight and joy just as often as they fill me with frustration and the desire for hard liquor (thought not right now; I am pregnant, you know).

- the chance to carry another baby, our last baby, the one we have wanted and wished for over the last five years.

- parents who love me unconditionally–seriously unconditionally–support my life choices, and tell me how very proud they are of me all the time. Plus, my Dad still ribs me like I was a little girl (Right on, Dude!) and my Mom willing sings “Happy Birthday” to me à la Marilyn Monroe just because I ask. Heh.

- siblings and a favorite cousin who make me smile, make me cry, make me rant, and make me really, really happy to be part of the family I was born to.

- the opportunity to pursue my educational endeavors with immeasurable support.

- a tribe of female friends whom I never thought I would have, but whom I utterly adore.

- the best health I’ve had. Ever. Hell, I’m healthier than I was in high school, and I’m pregnant right now. Heh.

- a confidence and comfort in my own skin that I have never had before. I finally feel like I know who I am, who I want to be, what I believe, and where I want my life to take me.

My life is so, so good. It’s not by any means flawless, believe me. But . . . those flaws? They only serve to remind me how very blessed and lucky I am to have it as good as I do. And when I examine my life at 30 versus my life at 16 or 20 or 25? Well, I wouldn’t trade where I am today to be a single year younger.

It was supposed to simply be a “check weight and blood pressure, then listen to the heart on Doppler” appointment only, really.

But when I asked “Will we be seeing the baby today?”, the doctor replied “Did I mention last time that we were?” “Not that I recall,” I said. “Well, if you don’t mind waiting for me to get the machine, we can see baby,” said he.

The ultrasound machine, as it were, was waiting in the hallway, right outside of the exam room. Waiting, as if we were meant to see you today, Mini Three. And so . . . we saw you.

I must tell you that I am completely head over heels in love.