What the deuce?

For this post, I'm going to tell you a little story. It is of no real consequence, has seemingly little to do with the bun in my oven, and may only serve as a peek into my daily goings on, now that I'm so close to popping (39 weeks tomorrow, what what!). But it matters to me.

The other week, I started to think about the birth of our baby boy in an entirely new way: not so much the physical pain of it, how it was going to happen, WHEN it was going to happen, fun with needles, etc., but something of an entirely different priority . . . .

Making sure mama be lookin' good for them first photos.

Needless to say, the birthing experience will leave me with a healthy glow, a radiance, if you will. ALRIGHT , that's just sweat, ok? SWEAT. And my hair will be carelessly tossed into a messy nub of nest, flopping side to side atop my head with every contraction. So if that's the case, I'd at least prefer said nub to be absent of those Sarah Jessica Parker roots that make their appearance every 4 weeks. And if I'm to tackle those roots, it's fitting that a mani-pedi comes with the territory (husband reads post, rolls eyes extravagantly). Nothing like some funky fingers wrapped around a pristine, cherub baby body to screw up a photo.

So I called to book an appointment to have my digits prettified. Scanning my daily planner and sporting a furrowed brow deep in thought, I knew I needed to bank on a date for this service. I figured the little nugget wouldn't come too early, but I needed to make sure the appointment was also far enough along that I wouldn't be due for a touch-up come first push. I made the appointment for late July: not too early, not too late, but just right. A Goldie Locks of the 21st century. Ouch, that's corny.

I went to the salon and got my toes and nails done a pretty pink color, especially since my world has turned to every shade of blue in existence. Afterward, I waited an extra 10 minutes before leaving to make sure they were good and lacquered dry, then left feeling just darling. Upon arriving back home and putting some things away, I looked down, and I saw it. IT. The unthinkable.

My polish chipped. (Read: polish as in nail color, not Polish as in sausage. I couldn't explain that.)

Now please, family, friends! Don't minimize this window, or heaven forbid all-together close it! It's not about the pettiness of the polish. There's something deeper to be said about the smudging of a nail mere hours after professional application - a defeating experience all on its own, am I right, ladies? Rather, as I stared at the crescent-shaped chippage and severe lack of "Virgin Orchid" at the tip of the offending finger, an overwhelming sense of peace fell over me, the message being quite simple, but just as necessary and completely applicable to the arrival of our little meatball:

I can plan all I want, meticulously plot out everything under the sun. In the end, imperfections and mishaps will pop out wherever they choose along the way. I have no control over this - and it's beautiful.

So whether I make my appointments according to the exact alignment of the stars, or avoid harsh cleaning chemicals at all costs; let my nails dry an extra 10 minutes, or organize and put away all baby items according to size and developmental age; delicately take out the keys from my purse so as to not smudge a thing, or vigorously take copious notes at every Birthing Basics class  . . . . .things are going to happen as they were written to all along, and the key is to know this ahead of time and roll with those punches; honor those punches. Because it's those "mishaps" that shape your experience and makes it all your own, makes it YOUR story to tell. The bigger plan will always play out. "Hey Mom, you just outfitted me in my brand new infant sleeper? Well now I'm gonna barf on it."

The only thing we can do in life is keep an extra onesie on hand, and enjoy the journey - chipped nails and all.