Sweet Chaos

It seems appropriate that my current planner ends at the close of this month. Following June '09 there are only two pages for notes and then the blue, plastic cover. Fin. End calendar. Enter baby. End calendar. Enter paradigm shift, embrace unknown, introduce unquantifiable entity. Baby.

I vacillate between excitement to meet him, to leap into the beautiful chaos of tiny hands and tender fragility and, on the other hand, anxiety about not being able to plan, to jot down dates and follow the predictable cycle of my life thus far.

A few nights ago, Mike and I were on our evening walk around the block when he said, "It's odd to think that years from now we'll look back on our time here and feel nostalgic about our walks." On this particular night the air felt balmy and cooling after the heat of the day, the mountains covered in lush verdure, the falling sun streaming through the clouds. In the distance we could see Utah lake shimmering as we rounded our last corner. Is it possible to feel nostalgic in the moment? To feel simultaneously the sharp sweetness and the ache and tug of its loss with the fall of each step?

I've had anxiety about losing this--the evening walk. The green mountains. The simplicity of Mike and I walking side by side, hand in hand, talking quietly around our block. After a particularly difficult day yesterday when a well-laid plan slipped away, when baby was labeled a "complication," Mike took my face in his hands and said, "It will only get better. He will only make this better."

As I sit here feeling our baby move in my belly, I feel ready to leap into sweet chaos.