Waiting

The baby is due tomorrow. Hard to believe, and at the same time it feels like it should have been ages ago. We painted the nursery two and a half months ago. Furnished it month before last. The finishing touch, the rocking chair, we added three weeks since. We have clothes. We have diapers. We have car seat bases installed in both vehicles. We have books she won't even be able to chew on for awhile yet, let alone read. We have two bags packed: one for labor, one for postpartum.
Despite the relative ease of the pregnancy, Kate yearns for labor, eager to be done with carrying. We both wake, well-rested, each quiet morning, wondering if it will be the last. Kate gently traces her fingers up and down her belly, asking "Is today your birthday, Isabelle?" No reply, just the usual shifting and rolling, mesmerizing movements that capture our attention like a lava lamp transfixing stoned college students. A foot presses up and out, sliding sideways across the great expanse of her abdomen. Fascinating. And we talk to her, and stroke her, and hope she comes soon. She might be here later today. She might wait another two weeks. But she'll be come out once she's ready, and until then we have to wait.