This is it.  It's the last few weeks of my pregnancy.  Very soon I'll be faced with the reality that this baby will not appear by magic, though I will continue to pretend it's all magic wands and glitter in between moments of "oh my goodness, I have to do what?!?!"

My husband, stepson, and I have been busy acquiring, assembling, and cleaning the supplies we will need for our new little boy.  I'm trying to stay as organized as possible, grouping like items in baby shower gift bags and lining the hallway with them so when my in-laws finally vacate the guest room (baby room to be), I can start flight of the bumblebee-ing everything in.  

This weekend as I washed the baby's clothes, I was struck by how tiny some of them were.  Some of those onesies are barely bigger than my own hand.  I'm talking crazy tiny.  

At first I thought the clothes must be sized wrong.  There is no way a human could be that tiny.  Then I got scared because I will be responsible for something that tiny.  He will rely on me for everything.  And he will be a tiny, fragile, wiggly thing that won't even be able to hold his head up on his own.

Deep breath.

Maybe a few more deep breaths.

The cruel twist of fate is that in this last month of pregnancy I've become extremely uncoordinated.  I'm shocked at the number of things I drop on any given day.  (Of course, my lack of flexibility makes me ponder how badly I really need whatever it was that just fell.)  In addition to that, I can no longer make it up a single flight of stairs without huffing and puffing.

Is this supposed to instill confidence in my own ability to care for a teeny tiny innocent little angel?  Oh boy.  Hopefully coordination returns quickly upon delivery.