Thirty five, again.

Thirty five.

That's the number of weeks it took us to get pregnant. 

(And no, I didn't obsessively keep track of this information - I did have to go back and count, just for the record.)

Now, thirty five weeks later, I look like this.

Oh yes, I do believe I'm the epitome of the term "fat and happy."  I can tell you without any pause which one has gone faster and been easier to handle.

It's this resolve that's kept me going the last two weeks or so, as I've definitely developed some pregnancy symptoms that have been tougher to handle than ones I remember with Leah.  There are some parts of this adventure and the aches and pains and... other awkward things involving portions of my body I'm not willing to discuss on the internet... that I could do without.

And then I remember that all these aches and pains are what is getting me to meeting that beautiful little boy, and I have to stop my complaining.  Because, really, what I have to do for the next 5 weeks is joyful compared to where I was at this time last year. 

Thirty five weeks is a long time to wait for a baby.  I know, because in that same amount of time, I've turned two cells into a nearly-fully-formed human. 

But I also know that it's nothing compared to the weeks and months and years some women go through to meet their special little ones.  There are still women whose arms and bellies are empty for reasons so far beyond me.  Left hurting and longing and outnumbered by those who simply sneeze and get pregnant.  This week - the 70th of my own baby journey, which has a very happy ending - the ones whose endings are still up in the air are very much on my mind. 

Every time this baby moves, I stop what I'm doing to place my hands on my very swollen belly.  He's in there, and I am again overwhelmed by the love I feel for this life we've been gifted with. 

Another little miracle.

5 weeks is not nearly enough time to fully appreciate just how blessed I am, and how far we've come.