Just like uncle Eiv

There are signs that Ville will have a thing or two in common with his marvellous uncle Eiv.

This morning, we had to get an extra ultrasound because Ville had refused to turn upside down for the longest time. And if breech is still in the cards after week 36, apparently you need to measure everything to see if normal birth is still possible. Yesterday, I went to see the doctor, and he agreed with what a midwife friend and I both suspected: head up, snug as a bug.

My Pan and I spent the rest of the day reading up on breech and on alternatives. I won't say we were worried sick, but you know. Whole new ball game.

Late last night, I took a bath to relax. After a while, Pan came in and said 'Huh. The bump has shifted. And the spot for the sharp poke, too.' And sure enough, by the time we showed up at the hospital, Ville lay with his head down, innocently, as if he'd been that way for ages and didn't know what the fuss was all about. Why bother going early when there's plenty of time? He had it all under control.

Just like uncle Eiv.

Ville and me

No writing going on at the moment, just careful maintenance of the production facilities, lazy lattes and lots of sleep.

Rainy day wishes

I wish I lived in this lovely, blue house, halfway up the Dragon Hill, with fragrant pink roses hugging my curved doorsteps, a little garden nestled in the back, and a horseshoe over my door for luck.

I wish I had finished Snowchild by now. Only six more weeks till Ville gets here, if he's of the punctual type (so very unlike his mother, then), and the end is on the horizon, but far away, like a mirage. It's been too hot to work these last two weeks. 32 degrees and sweltering. But the summer rain finally arrived yesterday, silvery green, smelling of grass and forgotten asphalt dust, with a slight chill to make all breathing easier. Maybe I'll find you now, little child, if I search among the thunderclaps and shards and feathers.

I wish I could visit my grandmother's farm, where the alpineberries are reddening on the mountain slopes and the Summerchild is singing with snowmelt now. I wish I could see my grandmother, too, who is 98 and just waiting.

But thankfully, there are other wishes, too: the caramel latte that I'm getting later, a morning of uninterrupted writing, just a little more energy than yesterday, sweet, forceful babykicks to let me know that a cup of sugary tea was just the ticket, the cats drowsing contentedly to the sound of my typing, and my Pan sleeping quietly in the next room. And rain, more rain.

See, the trick is knowing what to wish for.