Tuesday, March 7, 10:00 PM. Amy.

There’s a full moon tonight. I’m writing this by the light of a reading lamp but I almost don’t need it, so bright is the moonlight through the window. I’m lying in bed. Brewer is beside me, sleeping since right after dinner. His face harbors shadows it never used to have, yet in this light it looks almost as if he’s glowing.

I don’t think the kids are writing in their diaries much anymore. But I’ve come to depend on it.

The baby is due in a couple of weeks. I’m so ready. I’m tired of being spherical. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to sit, it’s hard to stand. There’s one position on my left side that’s comfortable for half an hour or so; every other position is miserable.

I don’t want to face childbirth unsupported out here, without even a midwife and with Brewer so easily fatigued. I’ve almost decided to ask Claire to attend me, though it’s a lot to put on a ten-year-old girl. But she’s almost eleven and she has to learn someday. I don’t think Brewer can make it all the way through the labor, and I can’t ask Garrett to help his own mother give birth.

I’m afraid, and yet… There’s a calm that’s welling up from somewhere deep down, a confidence. Carrying the baby is uncomfortable, but things feel right. I’m in good shape. There’s no pain. I feel… I can’t find the word…I feel trim, like a ship, straight and settled and ready.

I don’t suppose it matters, though, whether I’m ready or not. As with everything else going on these days, what’s about to happen is about to happen. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.