The other day I was rooting blindly through the back of my night table drawer (which needs a very thorough sort, as I've discovered) desperately looking for Chapstick, when my hand closed around a little pink notebook tucked beneath some papers.
I had a vague sense that I knew what it was when I pulled it out, but opened it anyway.
Inside were notes from our baby classes scrawled in My Beloved's handwriting. I guess I must have figured that since I was making the baby, taking notes in class was his responsibility.
The first few pages listed breathing exercises and labour tips. Then there were some doodles he drew while we were in L&D the week before Thomas was born, including one of a little baby saying "Hi Ma!" and waving. That was the day they told us they were too busy to admit me - even though my blood pressure had spiked high enough for my OB to send me there with the intent of having me induced - and sent us home.
The last page with writing on it simply listed numbers. Contraction intervals.
I closed the book, put it back and left the room; the wind knocked out of my wheezy sails.
It seems like a lifetime ago.
Huh. I guess it was. It was.