I’m finally thrilled to meet this baby. Not that there wasn’t always an element of thrill but it was masked in a lot of other things: shock, concern, busyness, for starters. Now I sit and watch this baby roll around, seeing his movements through my belly, and I can’t wait to hold him in my arms. In 10 weeks, give or take, Luke’s going to be kissable. My boys will finally see the little brother they’ve been waiting on. I’ll watch my beloved become a daddy all over again.

There’s also a good amount of apprehension with the excitement. That breath-catches-in-my-throat moment when I realize I’m going to be in labor again. My body is going to contract and agonize in order to bring this baby out to be kissed and there’s no getting around it. I’ll face those moments in the delivery room when I’m not sure that I can keep going and yet realize that I have no choice. There’s no other way but through.

If Facebook documented my relationship with food instead of my husband it would say “It’s Complicated.”

I used to like food. I grew up helping my mom cook, sitting on the counter while my Mamaw made biscuits, and perusing the aisles of the grocery store during our weekly visits.

Cooking dwindled during college except for the rare occasion in a dark dorm basement with rusty pots. But my love for feeding myself and the people I cared about revived when I got married and we moved into our first small apartment.

The kitchen and living room were just one open end of the apartment with the stove tucked next to the sink. There was no counter space beside the stove, that was on the other side of the table around a wall beside the refrigerator but that didn’t bother me. I told myself it had atmosphere.