You came into the world after much waiting and anticipation.
And then it happened – you happened. On May 17th, 2018, that second pink line began the countdown of meeting you.
I didn’t know it then, but your big blue eyes and curly blonde hair (both of which convince strangers I am your nanny, not your mother) – my womb was forming all of it. All of you.
I did not take one of those 268 days for granted with you inside my body; I savored every second – even the hard, sick, bed-ridden ones. You were alive, you were healthy, you were there. I don’t know that I’ve ever held such tension before: paralyzing fear, while also wanting to be fully present, knowing how fleeting the season is of holding your baby in your womb – the quickness of it, the temporary-ness, the excitement.
And then you were here – all 6 lbs, 3 oz, 18.5 inches of you.
Earlier this week, we woke up to snow falling and time stopped. For a split second, your bare, tiny, two-day-old body was swaddled against my chest once again as we rocked and looked out the window of our apartment on Lone Pine Drive. The flakes were big and quiet that morning, but we were warm and nestled next to the fire, both of us exactly where we wanted to be.
Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Rest and snuggles were the only agenda we had.
No one expected it then, the snow. No one saw it coming. We never do; when the weatherman brings false hope for it enough times, you know better than to get your hopes up for such a thing. But there we were, marveling at it all coming down, and I couldn’t help but think of the parallel between it and you. Of the magic of you. The wonder of you. The surprise and (un)expectation of you from the start. You were finally in my arms. Yes, the gift of you was -is – more than my heart could hold.
And then I blinked.
Now you are one and here we are once again, just as pleasantly surprised by those big, silent, February flakes covering the grass outside our window.
And still just as pleasantly surprised by you.