The last time.

I'm having a baby in six days.

If not sooner.

Wow.

It's hard for me to believe this pregnancy, which I'm positive will be my last, is about to come to an end. It makes me sad. I will miss feeling those kicks and squirms, watching my baby roll across my stomach, and the convenience of a built-in shelving unit on which to perch my evening snack. (And an excuse for having an evening snack. Every single evening.)

I will not miss my inability to breathe, walk normally, get into bed, roll over in bed, get out of bed, get into a chair, get out of a chair, sit longer than 20 minutes, stand longer than 20 minutes, or laugh without peeing. Not to mention the host of other physical side effects that shall remain undisclosed for both your sake and mine.

My mind has been racing these last few weeks. I'm trying to savor every second of this pregnancy while preparing myself for what's to come. But it's almost impossible to recall those sleepy newborn days with Calvin, who can construct a train track with ease and describe the plot of Up in painstaking detail. Even the part where "Mr. Fredrickson is sad because his Ellie gets died. She had to go to her house." Sweet boy.

He's so big. And as I fold and put away tiny pink onesies in nervous anticipation of our daughter's arrival, I wonder — was he ever this little?

He was, I know. A mere two and a half years ago I folded and put away tiny blue onesies in nervous anticipation of Calvin's arrival. But those early days with him are such a blur. Night after sleepless night. The nursing, the pumping, the bottles and blankets and burp cloths and blowouts. Was that really him? And us? And do I even remember how to do any of this?

I'm hoping it will come back to me without much effort. And that maybe this time, the last time, it won't go by so quickly.