Yet another friend is expecting. Her belly full, her face glowing, she grabs my hand and tells me of the coming baby. The joy is palpable and I am glad. Last night a dear friend tells me I need to kill my expectations. I laugh because last week I told another friend he needed to kill his.
Someone I know often says “Expectation is resentment waiting to happen,” and so this morning I think of my expectant friend. If being a mother will be all she dreams it would be, if she will love interrupted sleep, nightly feedings, first steps and words, as much as she expects she will. I expect she will, but I also understand why someone might caution the idealistic among us to simmer down a bit.