22 December 2017

Us, Another Sunday


Here is us, another Sunday. You and I. My other heartbeat. Our little dove. Our love for you already is evergreen, like trees in the childhood backyard of my best friend (another place you will call "home"). 

Sunday was many days in one: A twelve year anniversary. A baby shower (for you) with dear friends and family. A thirty-first week. And, simply (best of all) a day we spent together. 

Here are some things to commit to memory: 

~ Our twelfth Nutcracker. You danced in me with more life than ever. Papa could see your form even in the darkened theater, reached over, whispered, "Wow, oh, wow." He said he could feel your hand; he traced it with his own across the round landscape of my belly. I felt him feeling you. The Waltz of the Snowflakes, especially. I have been adding to your playlist (for years) (but especially in these hours) and in the midst of songs that made me dream of you before you were, I find you. Over and over, I find you. No longer the dream, but the memory of feeling you move to music. You especially love romantic piano. You love the violin so much that I wonder if you'll play. We talked about tucking you on my chest for next year's show. What you would wear. If a girl, a ballerina's tutu; if a boy, a mouse-eared bonnet. Tights either way, a knit sweater over peter-pan collar. I thought about your weight on my breast. (Thinking about feeling, really feeling, your weight in my arms is something I weep over daily.) Your head smelling like the lavender shampoo I'll wash you in before the show. Your soft baby sounds. Gurgles. Warm, rosy baby breath. I thought about rocking you in the lobby if you cry.

~ Reading, nightly, "Great With Child." Alexa sent it in what I've been calling, "the kindest box." And oh, this book. It's the sort that makes your mother sob every other page, so special you might devour it in a single sitting if only you didn't force yourself to hide it away -- for fear of missing it once it's read. And then to be read again. And again. Marking the years in a mother's life.

~ A near-meltdown on a Thursday at midnight because of how badly I needed an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie (and couldn't get one). Also, orange juice. 

~ Your papa: putting together your changing table. Stringing up Christmas lights. Sneaking an Eiffel Tower ornament into the cart for us. How badly he wants to get into shooting film again (for you). In the middle of a dinner out, declaring with such conviction, "It's somehow come into my head that our baby will have curly hair. And maybe it was a dream. Or just a thought. But I feel it so intensely -- and what do you think that means?" It was so sudden and so passionate that I dropped my spoon in my soup. Since you, he speaks differently. I don't know what it is, not exactly, but it's beautiful. 

~ A knit rabbit from London from Meghan, a set of knit booties and hat from Olivia and Taylor. Just some of the things that will make your childhood all your own ~ but things that made your papa and mama's heart stop in the meantime, while they waited. 


1 comment:

  1. Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (specifically from Potbelly) and orange juice are also things I'm craving on this growing-a-little-one journey! I usually enjoy mimosas with my mom on Christmas day, and this year, it was only orange juice in a champagne flute. But it was oh-so-satisfying. What was not so satisfying was the heartburn that came later, in the middle of the night. xo

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