It was a quiet and restful night.

It was a quiet and restful day, too, now that I think about it. I call them "gestating days"... days where it appears that my major accomplishment will be growing the baby inside of me. Nothing more, nothing less. Just gestating.

Days like this make me wonder how I will handle having an infant again. I like to play this little game with myself: I stop in the middle of something and think, What if you had a three month old right now? Who was crying? And needed his/her diaper changed? And it goes on and on. And the answer I always come back to is the same: I'd deal with it and do the best I can. Of course, I won't feel like puking every few hours, either, so that's got to make it a little easier.

Life/motherhood only gets better and I know this because of my lively seven year old who shares her liveliness at school for six hours a day and my three year old who happily lounges around with me on my gestating days and watches Cinderella with me and tells me, "I love you Mommy" while we're all snuggled up together on the couch with our blankets. Delicious.

I am beyond peaceful with the idea that this is the last time I ever have to be pregnant; this is the last first trimester I will ever have to go through; that the decision of whether we go for it and have a third or stick with what we've got is laid to rest. We're here and it's wonderful.

I have successfully shipped my husband and children off to church for the evening, have settled onto the couch (well, resettled after a brief interlude of upright-ness for dinner) and am going to flood my brain with utterly worthless television.
And gestate.
Peacefully.