We were out for a family walk with the new lightweight double stroller and Eli looked up into the sky. He saw what he thought was a falling star, really it was a cloud with a little tail on it, and he said it was a wishing star. I asked him what his wish was and he simply said, "the baby."
An amazing dinner, the recipe not yet post worthy, but soon will be perfected. You know the pasta, the salty anchovies, kalamatas and capers. Why haven't I been making this for years? I've always loved it and now Patrick can find nothing wrong with a caper in his pasta. Pour me a glass of wine and start melting those anchovies, I'll be requesting this one on Patrick's paternity leave.
I can't sleep. I'm exhausted. Creepy crawlies all over my legs, my body itches. For weeks now the same story, I'm adjusting to it. I worry about the baby, maybe something will be wrong, maybe we can't love another child like we love Eli and Chloe. I worry the house will be a mess when I go into labor and I'll be staring at dog hair all over the floor. But mostly, I just really can't sleep.
I wish for a clean house, a huge bowl of pasta with lots of romano cheese on it and to be sleepy enough to dream of babies who come from wishing stars.