It’s the end of the semester rush for Aaron and me. Aaron directed a Christmas program last week and will again this week on Thursday. The following week is his band concert and then it’s pretty much off to Illinois. For my part, I’ve papers to write and grade and work samples to configure—eighty pages of learning objectives and lesson plans—and presentations to put together. Add to that Clara’s 5:30 a.m. internal alarm clock, slap all that on top of some first-trimester, cooking-up-a-baby weariness, and what you get is a week-long lapse between blog entries.
Promises, promises, but this week, I’d love to take some shots of Aaron doing his Christmas program thing. Everyone loves him; it’s amazing. One of his two principals said he was the best music teacher with the best Christmas programs she’d seen in over thirty-five years of teaching. When the programs are over, I overhear murmuring of what fun the kids have in music and what a good job Aaron is doing. One of Aaron’s principals asked me what it’s like being married to the famous music director.
And I’m okay with that. I’m okay with being Aaron’s trophy wife for awhile. With a near two-year-old running around and another on the way, I get told quite often that this is a “season.” Now, there’s a part of me that wants to talk about the gender wage gap here and what a season means for our family financially and for me professionally. Mostly, I want to feel pregnant. I also want to rub my nose against Clara’s and feel her tiny loving fingers around my neck when she runs across the room after spending an hour in Kid’s Care at the gym. I want to laugh with Aaron and spend a week watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation in fifteen minute increments.
One of Clara’s new favorite games is to hide somewhere in the cabin and call out “Mom!.” I call back, “Clara!” and we do this over and over. We are always playing some kind of game, having some kind of fun, and meanwhile, I constantly feel my body changing. I don’t seem to get a lick of morning sickness, but still, my whole torso area seems to settle in and rub its hands together. “Alright,” it says. “Make room for the baby.” We’re certain this will be the last time I’m pregnant so I want to feel every change. I want to drink more milk and enjoy the feeling of my body rounding. It never stops being a miracle.
Here’s our muffin. Lately, she’s always parading around the cabin in someone else’s shoes. Hiding in the background is Beulah, or sweet dog-sitting charge.
We were at the church, working on some Christmas card photos, and we managed to snag a few of Clara checking out the boxes under the tree.
I’m just including these because that bow is as cute as those eyelashes and nose.
I told Clara on Sunday that I loved looking at her porcelain baby arms so she instantly started stroking her own arms in admiration. It might be time for me stop telling her she’s so beautiful, perfect, sweet, cuddly, bubbly, adorable every thirty seconds. But look at that face! How impossible not to kiss those cheeks all the time.