Long ago, in a previous post, I observed “One of the benefits of having a large family is that we are practically guaranteed to win at least one cake at a cake walk.”

It’s so true.

The kids attended the Spring Carnival at their school today. There was a cake walk. I almost feel guilty, but the haul of cupcakes on our counter will make me feel a little better.

If “Lifenut:The Movie” ever comes out on DVD, this post will be in the Bonus Features’ Deleted Scenes. I wrote it shortly before Beatrix’s birth, but never posted.

When I began this pregnancy, I had no maternity clothes. Every last stitch had been given away in an effort to hurl a hurtful past to the other side of the moon. I wrote about that process here.

Despite being pregnant for the eighth time, I didn’t show for awhile. In fact nobody we knew in our day-to-day lives suspected anything. I was able to dodge the need for more generously cut clothes for several months. Inevitably, my tummy and other parts of me began to grow. I was no longer able to pretend I didn’t need maternity clothes. It was time to shop. But I didn’t want to.

Visits to the Target maternity department were brief and businesslike—almost like UN fact-finding missions, minus Angelina Jolie. I noted how none of the pants had the big panels, the shirts seemed fitted, the gauchos hung suspiciously. I couldn’t buy anything. A part of me thought if I put a pair of pants into my red cart, the baby’s heart would stop beating. My rational side knew how crazy that fear was. It was a struggle to drown out the fears, worries, and doubts.

My belly started to demand coverage, so I gave in and bought clothes.

I’ve approached baby clothes and gear the same way. They are hard to buy, not simply because we don’t know the gender but because I don’t want to pack them away unworn. Thanks to Nini, I have 2 sleepers, a onesie, a pair of pants, and a t-shirt featuring a happy turtle. All are yellow. During a recent trip to Goodwill, I found a few pink baby bargains—a color gamble, but at those prices I feel no guilt. My mom bought an awesome diaper bag, too—it doesn’t look like a diaper bag, which is the best kind. I’ve refused to sling duckies and Pooh Bears on my shoulder since baby #2.

Recently we took a giant leap and bought a new car. It’s a Suburban. It was a revolutionary act of optimism for me. Our old car, a Grand Caravan, will not hold a family of eight. The Suburban will hold exactly eight. Hitchhiker snubbing rages on. The first Sunday we had the Suburban we drove to church. I turned around to talk to the kids. A blank span of leather in the center of the center bench seat kept catching my eye—the baby’s spot. Reserved.

I thought about buckling the baby in tight. I thought about being at a stop light sometime this autumn and hearing a squeaky demand to keep moving, mom. I’d turn around and see a nearly bald little head with a hurricane swirl of light brown hairs on the crown. I’d stroke it and say “we’re nearly there, baby…”

We’re nearly there.

~~~

Nearly eight months later: The hurricane swirl is gone, filled in by soft brown hair. My arm twists back to retrieve a purposely-thrown teething ring or her dolly. She squeals and is generally happy in the car, a good little passenger as we travel around town. She faces backward, of course, and is constantly entertained by the back row occupants: Ryley, Joel, and Aidan. She shares a bench seat with Sam and Tommy. They sing to her, talk to her, and wave toys in her face.

I can’t remember the blank space in the car.