My mother asked me a few days ago if I was nervous about having the baby, my fifth, which is due on Thursday.

To be honest, up until that point, I hadn’t given “having the baby” — as in the delivery — that much thought. Not because I’ve had especially easy deliveries — I’ve had good and I’ve had bad — but more because, with four other children, I’ve had more immediate and pressing concerns.

In the past few months, I’ve been busy doing what I’m good at: keeping my head down low and getting done what needs to get done. In that time, two children needed to be convinced that they wanted to share a room, and their clothing and toys needed paring down to fit into that apartment-style space. My 9-year-old needed room to grow, but he also needed reassurances that a spot was still reserved for him on my lap. My 7-year-old son needed as much firmness as I could muster. My 5-year-old daughter began at a new school. My 2-year-old daughter decided to Velcro herself to my hip. Two of the four children had huge growth spurts and needed new clothes. The oldest boy and girl needed new parkas and snow boots. Three of the four had birthday parties. One hand was nearly mangled in the elevator. And one foot had a stress fracture.

Which is to say, we had a fairly typical autumn.

(Let me not forget that the accumulated clothing and equipment from babies past needed to be located, dusted off, and Drefted.)

And did I mention that my husband and I have tried to maintain a semblance of a social life? We try to ditch the children and have dinner together a couple of nights a week. Each October, we go away for a weekend with another couple. We try to find the time and energy to hash out our differences — over parenting, over money, over plans — as civilly as possible.

When I’ve been tossing and turning at night these last few months, it hasn’t been because I can’t find a comfortable position or because I’m worrying about a smooth delivery. I’m up trying to figure out if my oldest is nervous about putting forth his best effort because he’s scared of failure — or because he might just be a tad lazy. Is my son with language problems getting enough help? How can I guide my daughter to an extracurricular activity that she can sink her teeth into? Try to remember, I remind myself at 3 a.m., that I have a 2-year-old who needs to be prepared for the birth of a sibling. In the wee hours of the morning, I turn on the light and scribble myself notes for the next day.

The older I get, and I guess the more experiences I go through, the more I recognize the simple truth found in that old cliché — that ignorance is bliss.

It’s hard to believe that it has been nearly 10 years since I was expecting my first child. During that first trimester, I remember calling my mother each day and telling her about the new and exciting places I had managed to throw up from morning sickness — on the subway, in the bathroom at work, into the garbage can on the corner of 79th Street. I remember leisurely flipping through “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” before I went to bed. I remember taking a Lamaze class with my husband and a lactation class at the hospital. I remember having my hospital bag packed at 36 weeks — just in case I had the baby early. I spent an extraordinary amount of time thinking about the delivery and the sex of the baby, and potential names, and choosing sweet curtains and pillows that would somehow turn a dull office into a nursery.

Now, for better or worse, I know exactly what’s waiting for me next week after the delivery, and it has little to do with decorating or names. I am entering what I like to call Baby Purgatory. The sleep deprivation, the emotional fragility, the agonizing first few weeks of breastfeeding, the mood swings, and the anxieties about the serious consequences of a virus spread from a loving sibling to a vulnerable newborn.

What is waiting for me is the overwhelming feeling of falling in love with the baby, which is outweighed only by the overwhelming feeling of helplessness and despair as several children legitimately need me at the same time I’m stuck on the couch nursing a baby. Who will oversee the homework? How will dinner get made? Who will put the gang to bed, let alone get them to school on time? Perhaps the best part of having been through this dance a few times before is the knowledge that there is an end to this phase. Before I know it, there will be a chunky, smiling 4-month-old clinging to my hip. Relatively uninterrupted sleep will be restored. And with it will return my good humor, patience, and, eventually, my waistline. These grueling months are a minuscule price to pay for the gift of parenthood, a gift that is no smaller or less significant or less awesome the fifth time around.

sarasberman@aol.com