Half-past forty weeks all I can think of is how these past years have been a terrible, beautiful thing. How they brought forth the darkest of fears, carried me to the very ends of myself and back, made me so much more grateful -- for a husband who cares so well, for love notes and ever-hopeful thoughts sent our way, for a mama who has listened to my tears across miles and miles.
I still struggle with the delicate boundary between fear and excitement. With every appointment -- waiting to hear the whirring of a tiny heartbeat -- I pray for safe-keeping until our next visit. I make lists of things we'll need in our earliest days together. I think of the things you'll tuck away as earliest memories of your mother, and think of the ones I've kept of my own -- how she studied textbooks at the kitchen table and kept black tea in a red tin by the stove, how she could fill a room with her laughter, how she made things with her own hands.
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