Welcome to home ownership. Welcome to the third trimester.

So, it's been nearly two weeks at our new abode. We're settling in slowly but surely. I had to put a lavender flower touch on our front porch:

We're so grateful for our new home. Things just worked out and we're truly happy. I guess I thought a lot more things had to be perfectly aligned before buying a home could be a reality for us, but once the necessity of having more space prompted us to consider it, the pieces fell into place more amazingly than I could have imagined. This is how God has worked in my life time and time again...

And yet. This is so weird and hard to explain, but even while my feet are resting comfortably on the hardwood floor, when I'm outside watering my hanging baskets of lavender flowers, when I'm out back on the patio furniture my parents handed down to us, while we're letting our son roam around our backyard inspecting the trees and flowers, I feel like it's not really ours. That it's still somehow impossible for us to own a house (even though we have the keys) or that we can't really afford it (even though we were approved for a conventional fixed rate mortgage) or maybe the bank thought we were better off financially than we actually are and that all the paperwork and tax returns and pay stubs we provided weren't completely accurate, or worse, somehow, that we don't really deserve it. 

It's similar to the feeling that I had when I got married. Like, because I had been single for a while, I had just gotten used to it and somehow felt like, even though I definitely desired a partner, that there was something about me that made marriage not for someone like me. And I don't even know what that "something" is, or what "someone like me" even means. It's just this inexplicable, elusive quality that makes certain things not for you. And when I say "not for" you, I don't mean that this quality makes you somehow unsuitable or unfit for certain things, I literally mean that they aren't for you. Like, they literally do not and cannot belong to you. Like, if you pick a gift out from under the Christmas tree and it has someone else's name on it, that gift is not for you. So, once the "gift" actually has had my name written on it and handed to me, it's still been hard for me to accept as truly mine. 

Even after 5 years of marriage, a kid and a half in, sometimes I look at my husband and wonder if he really knows who I am, and that if he had, would he have still married me. I don't mean that I'm secretly a serial killer or anything, it's just this stupid thought that there's something not completely authentic about the way I'm perceived or understood. I guess that's just another way of saying imposter syndrome, but for me, it's more complex than a fear of being exposed as a fraud, although that's definitely part of it.

Our new neighbors are mostly older and white, and while the ones we've met so far have been very friendly and welcoming—no-bake cookies and rolls with fig jam have been proffered—I've been hyper concerned over not wanting them to regret the slight browning of their neighborhood. I've placed thank you notes in their mailboxes the next day. I've, er, highly emphasized the lawn duties to my husband because I don't want them judging our yard. I pray that my bushy hair doesn't look too unkempt while out front watering the flowers. Can you imagine having lived in a house for longer than I've been alive? The rolls and fig jam neighbor said she'd lived in her home for 50 years. The no-bake cookies neighbor said she moved here in 1986 (okay, not quite as long as I've been alive, but still). I realize, in my more rational moments, that this is all ridiculous and my paranoia is just that, but this is a glimpse of my brain. And, also, like, thanks for the cookies and rolls because my pregnant self definitely destroyed them, but can we be honest and say we know you probably voted for Trump?

I was sitting next to my husband at dinner and we were eating some fried chicken breasts I made to go along with my mom's leftover greens, mac and cheese and potato salad. (Okay, only I was eating potato salad because my husband is picky like that). And I thought about the fact that the only reason he's eating greens is because of me. He also listens to a lot of black gospel these days, and I'm like, is this the skater punk I married? Like, I'm sitting here listening to Jars of Clay and 90s hits while he's blasting Eddie James. I know he's listening to this music now because of me. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. I'm just wondering if he thinks about it as much as I do. And even while I'm typing this, I know that he definitely doesn't. 

This pregnancy has gone by at lightning speed. I'm officially in the 3rd trimester. I have less than 3 months before showtime and I don't know how we got here that fast. I am a humpty-dumpty. Like, have you ever had a cart so full of stuff that it was a little hard to steer? That's how my body feels. Like an almost too-full cart that I have difficulty maneuvering. Although a lot of things have made it a bit more difficult to enjoy this pregnancy in the same way I enjoyed my first, it still feels like something new and exciting. I have a feeling this little boy is going to look like our first. He'll likely come out like his big brother, reddish with a shock of abundant, slick black hair that will eventually turn curly and brown. But what will he be like? What will he sound like? What will his personality be like? Will he be enthralled by the same things as his older sibling (clocks, pushing buttons, sunglasses, elevators, signal lights, Peppa Pig, chocolate cake)? We'll find out in about 12 weeks.