Day eight. I hopped on the bed this morning, feeling quite good about what is going to happen tomorrow, I couldn’t stop talking. “Go to bed,” my hubby mumbled. “Dont walk into the door and start talking to me when I’m still sleeping.”
Managed to make short list of all the itty-bitty of important stuff that I might need (I am a chronic list maker but unorganized executor). Charging the camera’s battery? Check. Get a lint roller for my son’s black pants? Check. New lipstick? Check. (For those who doesn’t know, lipstick shopping is a mood booster for me. Yea. I’m THAT weird. But at least I don’t do drugs for boosting the mood). Chicken in the oven? Rice? Check, check.
Guess I’m all set, but when I’m laying face-down on my bed, kitty on top of me (she likes to sit on my butts, she makes herself a buttwarmer), there is this emotion again, surging to my chest. Feel like I’m overloaded with mixed feelings, ready to explode. Explode of what? I don’t know. I’m just feeling it. I guess it’s the excitement slash nervousness slash anticipation, combined, mixed and swirled.
Go ahead, weird feelings. I’m ready. I am here and I’m feeling you. Because when it’s all said and done, I might miss you around. Yea, I’m talking to you, feeling.