I’ve been fighting it for a while.

And then, at one of those lazy, stay-in-pajamas Saturday breakfasts, my husband said it.

“I really hope the baby comes soon.  I want to get as much time with her as possible.”

Crash. My husband just brought our idyllic, eggs-and-bacon morning down around my very pregnant head.

Ever since his return in December, I have felt this pressure in the back of my mind, a little repetitive mantra of, “He’s not home long.  He’s not home long. He’s not home long.”

Make no mistake, I’m thrilled that he is here for our second daughter’s birth. Military families know darn well that the father is often not there to cut the umbilical cord.

But he won’t be here too much longer than that.

With our first daughter, we were stationed at a training command. There was no set deployment schedule, and though his hours were wonky, he saw her several times a week. He rocked her when she had her first fever. She chewed on his fingers when she cut her first tooth. He videotaped her sitting up and crawling for the first time.

That won’t happen this time. We knew that. We’ve always known that.  But that doesn’t mask the fact that, when it comes down to it, the push is on.

And my due date isn’t soon enough. Every day that passes is one less day he will get to spend with our baby.

And that makes me feel incredibly guilty, like it’s my fault that my body isn’t ready to bring her into this world yet.

As a military spouse, I have many moments when I wish he was home because I need help, or because I’m lonely, or because something really funny happened on the show Modern Family and I want him to laugh with me.

But we all feel that way. We all talk about it.

What we don’t always talk about is the guilt.

The guilt we feel because he will miss our first daughter’s birthday party - but I won’t. The guilt we feel when he doesn’t see her first smile, or hunt for Easter eggs with our toddler, or take her to swim lessons or blow raspberries on our baby’s belly. He won’t do any of this, but I will.

And as we get closer to yet another deployment day, I feel it more and more: the pressure, the guilt. I have an overwhelming desire to make sure he soaks up as much of this time as possible before it’s too late.

“You take her to the park,” I tell him, and not just because it hurts to lift my toddler up onto the slide, as pregnant as I am.

“You all go blow bubbles in the backyard. I’ll clean the kitchen,” I say.

You spend as much as time soaking up our kids as possible because I get to do it all the time.  That, in essence, is what I mean.

So, I have become a walking machine. I’m drinking enough labor-inducing tea that I literally put toys in the bathroom to occupy my toddler - we spend that much time in there.

I make dinner and do squats. I’m strongly considering putting aside my deep, dark fear of needles and going in for some acupuncture. I’m eating pineapple and lots of foods seasoned with basil and oregano. I’m taking labor-prep capsules prescribed by my midwife and swallowing horse-pill vitamins two, three and four times a day.

While I’m a firm believer that babies come on their own time, I’m also hoping I can encourage her along just a teensy bit.

I want her to open those little newborn peepers and see her Daddy and remember as much of him as a tiny baby can so when she sees him again, months from now, she will smile her toothless grin and cuddle on his shoulder - and lessen my guilt for watching him miss her grow.

At night, I whisper to my belly, as if I can move her through sheer will, “Come on out, little one. We can’t wait to soak up every day with you we can.

“Come out now, before it’s too late.”

Follow Brittany at www.brittsbeat.com