I wake softly, my tired eyes blinking in the dark, and in the exhale of my first deep breath I feel a stretch across my stomach, as if baby is waking with me. I lay still for a while, savoring the kicks and wiggles, these movements that have made me fall in love with this person I have never met. These movements that tie us inextricably together, forever.
I had worried, before becoming pregnant, if I would dislike the experience and find it too uncomfortable or foreign. Eight months in and it’s evident my worries were unfounded. The only worry I have felt since knowing this baby was a tiny bean of cells inside of me, was losing them. And even that fear feels a lifetime away as we approach the final stretch.
In 6-8 weeks, give or take, I’ll get to meet you.
I already selfishly know I’ll miss these still mornings together, smiling in the dark at all your tiny movements. I know I’ll miss this belly, now so large I am unable to zip jackets over, proudly declaring to the world I am growing you. I will miss how cozy and safe you are in there. I will miss not having to share you with others.
But as I type these words I feel a swift jab in my upper right stomach, reminding me you are your own person, distinct from me; an individual who the world deserves to know.
Fortunately, my heart soars even more at the thought of holding you in my arms. To see if you have a head full of hair or dimples like your dad’s or long limbs like me. I cannot wait to introduce you to your furry big sister, Brie, and show you the tiny library of books we’ll get to read together each day, and the brisk winter walks we’ll take with you bundled up tight against my chest.
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of all the people we love getting to meet you. Both sets of grandparents who have been patiently waiting, your aunties whose own children I have held and loved so deeply, the friends that have become family to us, all of whom have celebrated you with such excitement from across the country (& world).
I begrudgingly get out of bed, knowing my movement and footfalls will rock you back to sleep and the wiggling will cease for a while. When I reach the kitchen, the morning light drifting in through the glass doors exposes bright fall leaves clinging desperately to the trees. It is so beautiful I am compelled to take a photo, acutely aware as I look up from my phone that this season cannot last forever.
I am grateful I have been capturing it through photos and words. Romanticizing this time and basking in its sweetness. The next season will come before we know it. It will be both beautiful and hard (& cold).
So for now, I’ll eat breakfast and sit back down on the couch with a small cup of coffee. If I am quiet and still enough, the little kicks and jabs will inevitably begin again. I’ll savor my warm drink, and the fleeting days of this changing season – just the two of us – a little longer.
“I think one of the bravest things we can do is get our hopes up.”
– Robin May
