Cross your fingers.

I haven't thrown up in four days.

Every minute of not-throwing-up has been precious. I've already forgotten what a toilet looks like from only 8 inches away.

Please, PLEASE, you guys, knock on wood that this lasts.

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck ...

True story:

The other day I was getting dressed, and I opened my lingerie drawer and realized that all my clean underwear was in the dryer. Where it was CLEARLY not of much use to my naked self. Now that we live on a golf course, and there is a steady stream of golfers lollygagging their way past our back yard and getting fairly close to our iron fence (depending on how bad they are), the naked dryer-dash is a thing of the past. So I did what any sensible naked pregnant woman would do: I turned to my husband.

"Honey, would you go out to the dryer and get me a pair of underwear? I need a maternity pair."

Good-natured and ever-willing as always, he answered, "Sure. How will I know which are the maternity pair?"

"Just grab the biggest pair of panties you've ever seen."

He chuckled and trotted out. When he returned, he sported a half-sheepish, half-amused look that made me go, "What?"

"Well, let's just say you weren't kidding."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, you know what else you weren't? WRONG."

Seriously. Maternity underwear are not LINGERIE. I should stop calling my skivvies drawer by that name, and just call it what it is: the place where I keep granny panties you could also use as sails.

Weaned. (Wait, what?!)

I looked at my 22-month-old son today and realized that I cannot recall the last time he nursed.

I had a moment's panic over that. See, I'd always thought that I'd give up breastfeeding only reluctantly, that I would clutch my sleepy toddler to me and sob during what I knew to be the last time, that I would miss it and mourn its passing. In fact, I originally planned to tandem-nurse boy and this next baby, and only started scaling back boy's nursing when I realized that 1) nursing while pregnant was making me dehydrated and therefore even more prone to nausea, and 2) if I added breastfeeding-sharing to all the other sibling-factors that boy was already going to have to deal with when the baby arrived, I was probably only making it harder for him in the long run. Anyway, it came as a bit of a shock to me that The Last Time had come and gone without commemoration of some kind.

The truth is, I guess we were both ready for the end. Boy had gotten down to only some token nursing before he fell asleep (at nap- and bedtime), and he was prone to twisting around, pinching me while he partook, and fiddling with my hair and clothes in a way that wasn't *exactly* the idyllic nursing of an older child that I'd envisioned. I'd pretty much had enough of the biting and pulling and pinching and bra-strap-snapping. It was kind of like trying to nurse a rambunctious puppy with the social habits of a seventh-grader.

Still, though, I find that I'm a little heartbroken. And it's because this is just one more of the many countless times or experiences in my son's life that I will never, ever be able to get back again. I can't hold him again as a newborn or a six-month-old. I can't ever again watch him learn to crawl or walk. The soft spot that once graced the top of his head is long since grown closed. He doesn't have that BABY smell anymore. The movements of his hands are deliberate and accurate now, and while watching him maneuver a toy car down his garage ramp is a symphony of beauty to me, I miss the hiccup-y wavings of his once-chubby fists.

I really thought, when I looked forward to becoming a mother, that once my child came to me, I wouldn't have to start letting go of him until he walked away from me on his first day of school. But that was naive and short-sighted. I know that now. The truth is that the second he was born, he started growing and changing in ways that I had to see, acknowledge, and release into the world. As much as I try to recognize the fact that my son isn't truly mine, but God's -- as much as I try to understand that he's come THROUGH me into the world, not TO me -- sometimes it's just impossible.

Sometimes I just want to hug my baby and hold him tight to me and never let him go.

The many sides of ME. Or maybe just the one side.

Ways in which I'm a buttoned-up prude:

• I always wear my seat belt, even if I'm just moving my car so my husband can pull his out of the garage.
• I read the directions that come with IKEA furniture, microwave frozen dinners and LEGO toy sets.
• I have never seen or touched pot. No idea what it's even supposed to look like. Totally serious.
• I sort laundry and read the washing instructions on tags.
• I can never fully enjoy getting a massage because I always feel guilty that the therapist has to work so hard.
• I've never skinny-dipped, been drunk or snuck into anyone's yard to jump in their pool.

Ways in which I live dangerously:

• I never, ever check my microwaved meals with a food thermometer when the instructions say, "Food should be fully cooked, and should reach an internal temperature of 160 degrees."
• I don't floss regularly.
• I will eat leftover sandwiches that I forgot to put in the fridge the night before.
• I'll drink milk one or even two days past the expiration date on the carton.
• I regularly drive five or ten miles above the speed limit when on highways, if it's with the flow of traffic, and seems relatively safe.

Wait.

I don't think that second list makes the point I thought it would.

The nicest note I ever got from a stranger

This note renewed my faith in the generosity of the human spirit. Thank you, kind friend, for sending this to me via Facebook. (Personal data has been edited out to protect everyone's privacy.)

Hi there! I think maybe you've heard of me, I'm [a friend of your brother's]. On several occasions [your brother] has pointed me to your blog for an amusing post or adorable photo. One of those times I bookmarked it and return to read it often, because all of the posts are amusing, and all of the photos adorable. I think you are an amazing writer, and I really enjoy reading your posts.

I decided to write here because I don't have a blogspot account or a blog, but I wanted you to know that a few more prayers and good thoughts are coming your way for your pregnancy and new little one. The short prayer at the end of your "On the mend" post was really touching. I am hopeful that you all will be feeling your best very soon. I can see that you've had a rough couple weeks on top of a difficult few months, and I hoped some added prayers might help. Best wishes for you and your family!

I couldn't make this up.

True story:

My husband walked into the powder room the other day to do his thing. Boy followed him in, and parked himself (fully clothed) on his little white Baby Bjorn potty. "Potty!" he dutifully exclaimed, and his daddy affirmed that yes, he was indeed on a potty and yes, daddy was using the potty too. As my husband was washing his hands, the boy then stood up from his little, never-been-used potty seat, turned around to face it, and leaned over it. Grasping the back of it with one hand, he yelled, "Cough!", made a gagging noise, and spit into it.

My pregnancy has scarred him for life.

Next thing you know, we'll be discussing an exit strategy from Afghanistan

Actual conversation between boy and husband, by phone, yesterday afternoon:

Husband: "Hi, son!"

Boy: "Hi, dad!"

H: "Did you have a good day?"

B: "Det!" [Translation: YES!]

H: "What did you do today?"

B: "Mmm ... ABG! Ticket! Balls!" [Translation: We went to HEB! And the cashier gave me a Buddy Buck ("ticket")! And I used it to win clear plastic crap-tastic balls with stickers inside!]

H: "Wow! Did you have fun?"

B: "Det!"

H: "And what did you have for lunch?"

B: "Fries! Ranch! Chech-up!" [Editor's note: He also had a grilled cheese sandwich. Not sure why he chose to omit the entree from the re-telling.]

H: "Did you watch any shows today?"

B: "Boo coos! George! Sid kid!" [Translation: Blue's Clues, Curious George, and Sid the Science Kid. If you think that's too much TV for a not-yet-two-year-old, you can bite me. And read this post about my nausea.]

H: "Do you love your dad?"

B: "Det!"

H: "Ok. I'll be home soon. Love you!"

B: "Ee ooo, dad!" [Translation: Love you, dad!]