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Right now, my unborn baby ripples along the sweeping circumference of my belly. She strains against the wall of me dozens of times each day. She stretches her long legs, steamrolling my tiny sour stomach with her delicate feet. Soon, either she will outgrow her house, or I will outgrow mine.
Also distracting is the knowledge that I am due to deliver this baby in about one week. Although, of course, I will most likely give birth on some other day, maybe not until the middle of July or maybe prior to publication of this column. Facebook fiends are placing bets.
It’s exciting, but it’s also a little like being on standby for a flight. Maybe I’ll get a ticket today. Maybe I’ll just treasure hanging around the airport.
But seriously, I am in no rush. Pregnancy is a treasure. My husband Michael and I are only planning to have one child. This might be the only time in my life I ever get to have this incredibly intimate experience – an experience that, regardless of the exact date, is going to end soon. And although I’m not religious or even spiritual, it’s clearly a miracle.
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