In most ways, it was like a dozen or a hundred Sundays of our lives before.
I woke up early and mowed the lawn. Then I cleaned the house: kitchen, bathrooms, sweep and mop; vacuum the stairs.
We went swimming in the morning, Jenny with her Master’s Group, myself in a lane nearby. I splashed out early to lift weights. While I was standing poolside a woman in the pool asked, “Is that your wife, the really really pregnant one?” “Yes,” I said. “Well, she’s amazing.” Eight-plus months pregnant and she lapped the others in her group.
We stopped at the grocery on the way home. I saw several former coworkers in the parking lot — they were waiting for a bus for a winery tour — and reintroduced Jenny. One of them said: “My God, you’re about to pop!” “Well, we’re a week away from our due date, so not quite yet.”
That afternoon I took a short randonee out Skyline to Rocky Point Road, returning through Hillsboro on Walker Road. Jenny and Michelle went shopping, I think.
I remember ascending the stairs to our bedroom that evening. The swimming, the weightlifting, the lawnmowing, the cleaning, the groceries, the 60 mile bike ride: typical Sunday stuff. But tiring. Climbing those steps took a lot of effort. I willed myself up to bed, thinking, “please don’t let that baby come tonight.” I barely had the energy to make it to bed; I couldn’t imagine having to get up and help bring a person into the world.
That person had other ideas.
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