Washing Baby Undershirts Before the Baby Shows

I have no idea why I did it, other than my mother told me to, but I washed brand new tiny baby undershirts the week before my first baby was born. I washed them alone, so sacred and breakable they seemed, and I used special soap that smelled like, well, like panic mostly but also like sweet relief. I have no idea how I did it, sitting there on the floor straining to bend over the solid giant lump under my ribs, but I very carefully folded those napkin-sized shirts one by one, until they were flat and perfect and stacked like waiting soldiers. Sweetly-smelling and waiting on something I couldn't wait to know.

Today, I pulled out a stash of swaddling blankets from a drawer where things like that get stuffed away and hidden. I shook each one out, picked a few I liked the best and then tucked them under my pillow so that they might smell like me. I found a long-unused basket that once held soft blocks, slobbered-on rings and fuzzy books that honked and jingled and I filled it with new toys that looked pretty much the same: bright colors, soft fleece, rubber.

Earlier, Bridget and I wandered the giant store for them like shepherds without a North Star. We had a list of supplies but no idea where to find them. Each aisle seemed longer, more confusing, and we lingered far too long in each one, pointing to and touching things we knew nothing about and wondering which was "right" or "best." Every one around us seemed so fully competent, and I whispered to my first born, her head now just inches below my own, "This is what it felt like when Daddy and I tried to find a car seat for you..."

We left with a small sackful, deciding to make bigger decisions later. We rode home in silence, a rarity for that kid, and when we got home, she sat on the floor and carefully cut price tags off braided ropes and squeaky squirrels. She turned each toy over in her hands making sure it was just right and also maybe looking for something, looking for anything that might tell her the future. When she was done, she turned to me and said in a voice that was part wistful, part surprised and loaded with an anxious awe that seemed so familiar, "Today is the last day we have before our dog."

I know, I said. I totally know.