There was no switch, no lightbulb. A waning shift in posture, imperceptible to the naked eye.
We grow into it, don’t we? The nine months we wait, our hands cradling, rubbing the genie bottle of our womb. We make a wish a thousand times over. For fingers and toes, for health and happiness. For safety and sleep-filled nights. And for grace.
Oh God, we pray, give me grace. Grace and strength and the wisdom to not mess this up.
“When I get home, let’s get on the baby-making train,” I tell him from a payphone in Temple Bar. I am in Ireland and in love and I am silly to think I am ready. We’ve been married three years now and our friends are having children. Irish babies smile at me with round, ruddy cheeks. “Okay, okay,” he laughs at me, “Let’s go for it.” I do not know it yet, but I am already a passenger on the baby train. I am five weeks gone and it will take a half-dozen pregnancy tests before I believe it.
You remember Fiona, don't you? She shared her words with us awhile back as she prepared to welcome her daughter Kaya into the world (who is so gorgeous, by the way). As she acclimates to motherhood, she invited me to share a bit of my own coming into it. This was a surprisingly painful exercise, and I struggled at that table in Starbucks, writing about those first days, finding myself suddenly in tears at the memory of it. I'd love it if you would join me over at her blog to read the rest.