Nineteen more.

Am I ready for baby number two?

Well, no. And that's okay, because I still have nineteen weeks to go (seventeen and a half if this little pumpkin comes at the same rate Georgia did).

I met up with a lovely bunch of ladies tonight at Chick-Fil-A to help ease the pain of missing my dear husband this week, and in the course of the conversation, Georgia pulled the straw out of the chocolate milkshake, thus dribbling brown dairy goodness all over us.  She also spit an unsatisfying waffle fry back onto the tray and preceded to push the high-chair all around the back of the restaurant.

There is a reason that we don't eat out.  Ever.  And this is 99% of it.

Because Georgia goes to bed so early (6:30), we've found the time that we would normally go out to eat dinner is right at the "drunken-baby-stage" as we call it - in which she acts without reason, purpose, or cause.  And while we still discipline accordingly, we've also learned to avoid putting her in situations that will allow her to put this drunken-baby-stage on show for the rest of the world to see.  And as many parents can attest to, there is simply something about restaurants that gets the wee one going.

All that to say, I am continually humbled in this journey of parenthood.  Sometimes I wonder - what was I thinking, getting into all this again?!

When Georgia was about eight months old, I remember thinking 'This isn't so bad! What's everyone so stressed about?  I got this!'.

And then she became a toddler.

Now, hear me now my friends, I love having a toddler.  She is so inquisitive and smart.  She's starting to use bigger words, putting two together sometimes even!  She likes to help my bake and pulls over her stool and apron when she's ready to get her hands dirty in the kitchen.  She waters my plants for me and helps me pick up the toys from the bathtub.  She'll rub my back and help pick out my clothes.  She'll say 'Hi' to strangers on the street and bring me stacks of books to read to her.  She'll 'help' sweep the floor and she'll freely give kisses when the mood hits her.

And my favorite: she'll run up behind me, grab the backs of my legs and just hug me so tight.  Because she loves me.

Never mind the fact that last week she did this and bit me right in the...ya know...

Point being, I wouldn't trade this stage for anything.  It's wonderful.  And it's hard.

It's hard to explain a concept to a little person who doesn't understand.  It's hard to deal with tantrums and it's hard to deal with disobedience.  And frankly, it's often times hard to not feel like a maid a midst it all.

But to each stage of child rearing, alas, there is a season.  And there are moments.  And the moments of complete joy overwhelm those feelings of helpless desperation.

Like when your child is ripping apart a restaurant.

Because we're not finding out the sex of our next baby, I have been busy washing and folding all of the baby clothes we have.  Lots of little blue clothes and lots of little girl clothes.  Piles and piles of them.  It's so fun to anticipate the unknown - what will this baby be?  What will it look like?  What will it's personality be like?

I can't wait to find out!

But at the same time, I can.

I am thankful I have nineteen more weeks to prepare for the birth of this wee one.  Nineteen more weeks to prepare a nursery with a $0 budget, nineteen more weeks to wash a billion baby clothes and blankets, nineteen more weeks to continually loose my waist and widen my hips, and nineteen more weeks to spend training and preparing our little Georgia girl for the great change that will soon be upon us...

...oh! and nineteen more weeks to con free back massages out of my husband, because, after all, I am "carrying your child".

Yes, my friends, even amongst the side-effects of pregnancy (read: spider veins all over my legs and an unquenchable thirst for melon), it too has it's moments of pure joy (read: free back-rubs).

At least for nineteen more weeks.