Last night Herb and Kathleen came over and in between the sunset ride in the convertible, the martinis, and supper, I washed and dried 47 diapers.
They have been in a cedar chest since Lily's sister, Jessie, became potty-trained. She's twenty now, so that was a while back.
They have been waiting, white and soft and functional for at least seventeen years, maybe eighteen, and it felt like treasure when I pulled them out. I didn't realize I still had so many.
When I folded them this morning, I kept thinking of how nicely they are going to fit around Lily's baby's bottom. How comfy they are going to be for him. I thought about Lily changing her baby and how she'll be an expert in three days at this business of diaper-changing. How each diaper change is an opportunity to kiss her baby, admire his perfect belly, his boy-parts, his tiny butt. How she'll so carefully clean him up and make him all cozy again, tucked into soft white cotton.
It doesn't seem possible.
But the diapers are ready and so she may have this baby at any time.
I am handing over the diapers to Lily who is about to become a mother.
And so it continues, and so it begins.