April was always a promise, whispered from the shadows of a really hard year. April means January--and, with a last name like Ziskin you're going to need all the help you can get. You're lucky your daddy thinks of these things. I have thought of your arrival with the immediacy of freshly baked bread--but your daddy always has a plan.
And, like all things he plans to fruition, April arrived to a newfound joy. And a real preparedness from two people who have nothing to offer---but love. Today, your daddy and I found a onesie in the Lexington Visitor's Center, after the Patriot's Day reenactment (we don't often frequent the visitor's center--I promise we're cool) and he said, Maybe our baby will wear that. We talked about your name, on a hike, our hands outstretched with birdseed. Last week, we sat on the floor in your daddy's office (that just might be your room someday) and talked about what a nursery will look like. I say all this because, whenever you come, there should be no doubt how wanted and pre-loved you are, Baby.
Now that April is here, baby, I'm scared. I hope my body is strong enough to house you. I dream of being one of those glowing mamas, with those tiny arms and overflowing bellies. I want you to hear us singing you Weepies songs, from inside the womb, to read you poetry, so that when you are born you are one step closer to holy.
Every day I wake up and can't help but hope you're already in there. Starting your journey to us. This is us, starting our journey to you.