To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to gain, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)
Pete Seeger's adaptation of the above passages from Ecclesiastes, famously covered by The Byrds in 1965, has been running through my mind since Wednesday of last week when Dr. Sheppard told me she believes Mr. Henry is breech. This was not the case at my last ultrasound, & he moves so much that I am hoping he gets his act together in the next two weeks before my May 13 ultrasound, at which point I will be 35 weeks pregnant. Per doctor's orders, as I do things that resemble this . . .
. . . in an attempt to persuade Henry to turn, I find myself alternately singing Turn, Turn, Turn & Bob Seger's Turn the Page. Both appropriate songs, I suppose, given the changes that are ahead. While I'm not a rocker "strung out from the road," I am thinking a lot about soon penning the final lines, & then closing the pregnant chapters of my life for good. I can't say I am overly weepy about this at present, given the struggle to accomplish things like putting on my pants & shoes. I painted my toenails last weekend & honestly felt I deserved a medal when I'd finished. Summer birthing, I'm discovering, presents a set of challenges you avoid when your baby is due in December, as Reagan was. Winter clothes, including maternity clothes, are bigger & bulkier, toenails don't have to be painted, &, yes, legs don't need to be smooth & silky.
I will close out the spring semester in two weeks, & then the wait begins. Reagan has been working on some skills she'll be able to put to good use when my hands are otherwise occupied, such as peeling her own mandarin orange, which she's a pro at now:
She's championed snow cone eating, including a mastery of the dual-purpose straw/spoon:
She loves to take pictures with my phone, so I'm trying to show her how to capture actual targets, like people:
Or our dog, Sophie:
And she's working on a self-portrait series:
I feel a sense of urgency every day now. I haven't read any of those books about preparing your child for a sibling (sorry, if I'm going to sit & read I'm losing myself in some fiction), but Reagan & I speak of Henry in the here & now . . . Henry's room, Henry's clothes, Henry's peek-a-boo monkey that Henry's grandmama bought him that Reagan likes to go see every day. And by "go see," I mean walk into his room, take it out of his bed, & return to the couch with it for quite some time. I know that our family dynamic is about to change; it is our season to be born, to build up, to laugh, to embrace, to gain, to sew, & to love . . . & I pray Mr. Henry gets the memo that it's time to turn.
I continue to stockpile supplies in our house & do everything I can possibly think of that I won't have the time or inclination to do once Henry arrives, such as finally hanging pictures over Reagan's bed, something I've wanted to do for awhile but was waiting until I felt she wouldn't use them as projectiles:
As I type, Trey & Reagan are in the living room playing Rock Band. Trey is on guitar, & Reagan has the mic & is singing (rather articulately), peace sells, but who's buying? I must now waddle on in there & see if there's a non-Megadeth selection in the queue.
On a final note, if you're reading & have a positive story of a breech baby that turned late in the game, please feel free to leave me a few encouraging words. Oh, & if you see me in Target, hidden behind a buggy laden with toilet paper, paper towels, diapers, wipes, & the latest Archer Farms trail mix creation, tell me to go home; my feet (& my Target card) need the rest.