Lying on the couch, watching the rain and the wind drum and sway the golden leaves on the tree outside, my dog snoring at my feet, I am relaxed, but full of anticipation. I haven't the energy or the ability just now to act on this anticipation, no nesting is happening here, just rest to keep my blood pressure in a safe range. But despite weeks of rest on the couch I feel restless, twitchy. I am waiting, waiting, waiting, for a sign that this is really happening, a sign that he will come soon.
I feel like I am standing right on the edge of a great Mystery. And I know that it is all cliche -- becoming a parent is a great transition in life, it's a "very special time", everyone says that you "just can't know" until you've been there yourself and held your newborn child in your arms. I've heard every version of this, or seen them all imprinted on cards with pictures of ducklings and bunnies, bottles and diaper pins. And of course, this is how we all got here, every one of us once a ripe round unknown inside our mothers, every one of us inside in the darkness then born into the light. I see us all now as part of a great long chain of children and mothers. There's nothing special about this -- it is not rare, it is not unique, and I have done nothing that has not been done billions of times before. But it is a Mystery, nonetheless.
I am overwhelmed in the moment. I feel like a cup filled to the very brim, and happy tears come easily when I think about what is about to happen, or see that tiny pair of baby socks, or try to picture his face. I am certain that nothing this powerful has ever been about to happen in my life. And while I feel ready, I also feel profoundly humbled at the very idea of a tiny human emerging from inside of me, coming into my arms, nursing at my breast, falling into my love and protection. That I grew him, flesh and blood and bone, from nearly nothing into a person who squirms and kicks, and who soon will look at me and wrap his tiny fingers around mine is staggering to me. He is waiting in there, without images in his newly formed mind, without language or culture, without any sense of past or future. He may know my muffled voice, the bark of the dog, some vague sense of when I am awake and asleep, but that's it. He is New. That word means something different to me today than it did before.
Will I do right by him, and care for him, protect him, teach him well, to love, to care for the world and his fellow travelers on it? I hope I will. I will try my best to do so. I think I am ready, I think I know what we can expect, but I also know that I am wrong. I am not afraid, but I'm not ready for this, there is no such thing as ready. I won't be until I see him, until I hear his breath and feel his skin and smell him, and by then ready won't mean anything because it will already be happening. And then I know that together he and his father and I will figure out what comes next.
But for now, waiting, waiting, waiting. I rub my belly, and I breathe, and I wait for the Mystery to be revealed.
I feel like I am standing right on the edge of a great Mystery. And I know that it is all cliche -- becoming a parent is a great transition in life, it's a "very special time", everyone says that you "just can't know" until you've been there yourself and held your newborn child in your arms. I've heard every version of this, or seen them all imprinted on cards with pictures of ducklings and bunnies, bottles and diaper pins. And of course, this is how we all got here, every one of us once a ripe round unknown inside our mothers, every one of us inside in the darkness then born into the light. I see us all now as part of a great long chain of children and mothers. There's nothing special about this -- it is not rare, it is not unique, and I have done nothing that has not been done billions of times before. But it is a Mystery, nonetheless.
I am overwhelmed in the moment. I feel like a cup filled to the very brim, and happy tears come easily when I think about what is about to happen, or see that tiny pair of baby socks, or try to picture his face. I am certain that nothing this powerful has ever been about to happen in my life. And while I feel ready, I also feel profoundly humbled at the very idea of a tiny human emerging from inside of me, coming into my arms, nursing at my breast, falling into my love and protection. That I grew him, flesh and blood and bone, from nearly nothing into a person who squirms and kicks, and who soon will look at me and wrap his tiny fingers around mine is staggering to me. He is waiting in there, without images in his newly formed mind, without language or culture, without any sense of past or future. He may know my muffled voice, the bark of the dog, some vague sense of when I am awake and asleep, but that's it. He is New. That word means something different to me today than it did before.
Will I do right by him, and care for him, protect him, teach him well, to love, to care for the world and his fellow travelers on it? I hope I will. I will try my best to do so. I think I am ready, I think I know what we can expect, but I also know that I am wrong. I am not afraid, but I'm not ready for this, there is no such thing as ready. I won't be until I see him, until I hear his breath and feel his skin and smell him, and by then ready won't mean anything because it will already be happening. And then I know that together he and his father and I will figure out what comes next.
But for now, waiting, waiting, waiting. I rub my belly, and I breathe, and I wait for the Mystery to be revealed.
