So many life changes and I should be documenting them all, RIGHT-HERE-ON-THIS-VERY-WEBSITE. Why can’t I breathlessly report things as they’re happening?? Unfortunately, I seem to need 3 months, 6 months–sometimes years–before I can process and then write.

“Even for a simple blog post?!”

Yes, even for a little blog post.

And a book? Forget about it. I had to marinate (practically pickle) in my own thoughts for three years before I could fully process my first New York Days (the latter also being a fabulous book by Willie Morris). Even then I couldn’t get out half of what I wanted to say.

So imagine my little mind trying to wrap itself around the coming of a baby… My body and mind are tired come 5 o’clock– blogging is the last thing on my “To-Do” list. But I guess I have a somewhat viable excuse.

They tell me that now my body is busy helping her body create a brain, bone marrow. 30 ½ weeks along (but who’s counting?) and I’m growing a little human being who is in charge of her own red blood cell production, who is fattening up for her big debut at NYU hospital, who is now blinking and napping and listening to her Daddy’s voice at night when he gets up real close to my belly and talks to her when we’re in bed.

God-willing, I’m forming a child who will be much more intelligent, kind and patient than I… Can I eat something to encourage a forgiving, gentle nature?

When I’m relaxing with this little-human-to-be, guess what I do? I read about the Umbrian countryside (The Lady in the Palazzo; Marlena de Blasi), I eat Jamie’s homemade Gruyere and Pecorino Popovers and I indulge in an even guiltier pleasure… Some women play Bach and Mozart for their unborn children–I tune into the Real Housewives of New York.

Baby’s in for quite a ride, isn’t she? I’ll do my best to document… and get back to you in 3 years.

A typical day in our newlywed lives: We paint the nursery walls pink… and hubby makes homemade sausage in the new kitchen??

A word to expectant brides: Never let your husband loose with the registry scanner! He’ll come home with meat grinders and myriad other products sure to destroy the new countertops and your sanity.

Nesting Syndrome is not a myth. Being able to see little elbows and feet grazing up against your belly, does a number on your priorities… Suddenly, I can’t get enough of home catalogues (or ABC Home & Carpet super sales), custom crib bedding, window treatments and natural fiber area rugs. (I can’t believe I can even string those words together–NATURALFIBERAREARUGS.)

Yesterday, I was ecstatic leaving Clio with Jamie, our new table “runner,” linen napkins and matching coffee mugs and sugar bowl in tow.

“Aren’t you thrilled, baby?! Now we’ll be coordinated when we drink coffee in the morning!”

My new husband looked at me like I was juuuust a little crazy…

And maybe I am.

I’m in my late 20’s, in the throes of transitioning from one life to the next and the space around me is suddenly so important. Maybe it’s my way of coping? In the span of 6 months time, Single-Carefree-Downtown-Writer (because we’re all hyphenated clichés in someone’s mind) became Young(ish)-Wife-and-Mother-to-Be. And this new, “adult” life just happens to come with a new, “adult” apartment.

Goodbye SoHo studio, hello West Village 2-bedroom.

From the nursery and from the master bedroom, we see the warm lights and rooftops of the West Village. The cement wonders of Union and Madison Square rise in the distance-the only reminder that our quiet street is ten minutes from chaos and worries. But I like this, being removed yet somehow still a part of it all. The skyline reminds me that I’m here, still trying to do something (whatever that something may be).

And the nursery is large enough to double as my home office. One end will be pink toile and plush toys while the other is hard angles, work and stacks of bills…

Every woman says she “wants it all.” But does she? Do I? Can I handle it?

A killer profile and a big set of feet–baby girl is already the spitting image of her dad.

Six months and counting…

At night, my belly grows to one hundred times its size. While I try to sleep, she’s given the space she needs to flip and dance, ponder in comfort what it feels like to be a city baby, our baby.

Her thoughts (1am-4am EST):

“How’s Mom gonna navigate those subway stairs? Do we ALWAYS have to take the “6” train? Or is it just her excuse to pass the Balthazar bakery and eat something with cinnamon and sugar?”

“I’m really diggin’ last night’s lamb stew… How does Dad do it? There’s Mom’s crazy mood swings (probably caused by me), his nutty teaching hours and then the wedding gift-cluttered shoebox apartment…”

“When are they going to get it together and start decorating a nursery? I’m thinking white, creams and pink toile… I want the space to whisper calm, cool city baby. Okay, someone’s been reading Domino before bed.”

“Is Dad really gonna be on television this spring? Someone needs to cool it with the fabric samples and paint chips and start planning a viewing party.”

My thoughts are baby’s, hers are mine… pregnancy has proved to be the strange, mysterious comingling of souls and thoughts and bodies.

I try to imagine what’s next and I can’t…

All I seem to be good at is planning menus, feeling fabrics, rearranging boxes. Tomorrow night is Scrabble and dinner with friends–French onion soup, Roasted Butternut Squash, Walnut and Parmiggiano Salad, Angel Food Cake with Lemon Honey Drizzle. When I’m full, I’m happy and my mind is at rest. Then night comes and I try to fall asleep. Parker Lee and I begin our games anew…

The calm before the storm (the baby storm, that is)…

Enjoying a sip of wine, my honey and a bonfire on our honeymoon.