A few weeks back, a Christmas miracle occurred around these parts.
My husband - the man I love and adore - and the man who has been deployed for months, came home.
And we honestly didn't expect it.
It's the military-wife code: Expect the worse and hope to be pleasantly surprised.
And, for once, I was pleasantly surprised.
Ella's "dada" came home in time for Christmas.
And I promptly retreated back into my little family for the holiday without much thought to blogging or e-mail or Twitter or anything that didn't involve twinkly lights, snuggles with fleece blankets on the couch, and wrapping toddler Christmas presents.
And it was a great month.
Filled not only with the wonder that is Christmas celebrated with an 18 month old who thinks everything is just! so! cool!, but also with the fact that my husband was home, and I could finally sleep a bit more and maybe, just maybe, address our Christmas cards without the "help" of a toddler bearing a crayon.
And then, as the holiday passed, I realized that - dear heavens! - we're about to have a baby. We have, like, a month. (Assuming she's like her sister and just a little bit early.) But even if she's a late-comer, we have six-ish weeks till she's here.
Holy birthing mackerel.
And though I may have been surprised by the fact that this baby inside me has to come out, like, almost right now, Baby Girl No. 2 is not.
She knows it.
She's bigger than Ella was. I can tell. She's more mobile than Ella was. I can tell. And I've already run out of room in there. I can tell. And so can my midwife.
I don't think we're going to be in this whole pregnancy gig for much longer. Which means panic? Well, it ensued a few days ago.
I pulled out bins of baby-girl clothes and sorted and washed and re-sorted and stacked and hung and put them away.
I bought the few odds and ends I still need this time around.
I scrubbed Boppy covers and bouncer seats and co-sleepers, pulled just out of storage.
I prepped teeny tiny cloth diapers and re-organized everything so that two little girls under two could share a room.
I barked orders at my aforementioned hero husband and sent him back and forth to the store for this, that, and the other, maintaining certain things had to be done before No. 2 in here joined us out there.
And there was still no time for blogging or e-mail or Twitter or anything that didn't involve onesies and sleepers and breast-milk storage bags.
Now, here we are.
The hubs is back at work; my toddler is still detoxing from the holidays, rife with treats and presents and endless attention. And I have to start blogging again (and tending to my various inboxes) before Baby Girl comes.
It won't happen every day; let's be clear.
But I'm back at it.
Before we all come to, and I have a 3 year old and 1 year old, but I still haven't published my second bambino's birth story.
It's 2013. And I still have a blog.
Let's do this.