eighteen weeks

There's so much to say about this season, about what it's been and what it hasn't.  I make my way through days with an eighteen-week-old baby swimming away in a rounding belly, awaiting flutters and praying at intervals for safe delivery this spring.  There are moments of magic when we talk about our plans for summer, the morning walks we'll take, where a cradle might fit -- endless ephemera that I tuck away and try to remember on harder days.  Still, I've spent so much of these past months feeling sick and fearful.  Out of sorts, I've said to him countless times.  I've felt off-balance for quite a while now and while it's been difficult, it's brought me to the ends of myself in a most-needed way.  I've found space for becoming reacquainted with the versions of myself I'd thought I'd put to rest and I'm learning -- ever so slowly -- to allow room for grace and patience.

All this to say: I have never felt so homesick and at home all at once.  I have never felt so grateful for my body, and to be witness to immense change.  I have never loved him more, or felt so cared for.  I have never felt so certain that I would do it all again, every minute of the past two years.