Every month feels different: a little more scientific, precise, trying.
The first weekend of June, spent with our nieces, teaching the zoom zoom song and reading books about tiny feminists. Kissing tiny foreheads and lulling tired eyes into naps. Practicing for you.
Playing house with your daddy is like picking blackberries off bushels in Portland. No matter how dirty our hands get, it's the sweetest bite--the perfect love letter.
Time with pregnant people makes me long for you, baby. I spend the days imagining what it might feel like, how it might look, what we will do together.
Every month we don't meet you is a month washed away with ice cream and a couple tears. To want something as much as you...it's constant heartbreak. To wish. To wait. To wonder. I will never eat ice cream again if it means you'll be on your way.
We've started new routines: I only drink one cup of decaf tea a day, in the evening, while your daddy and I sing songs on the piano and cry laughing over rounds of Heads Up. It's the happiness tour and we can't wait for you to join us!
We saw Seussical The Musical in the park--and I imagined how much you would like it! How we would have read all the books, in the weeks leading up to it, to recognize our friends onstage. The Cat. Jojo. Gertrude McFuzz. And your dad played piano on the Merrimack River. How we would have sung to you. Other babies came frolicking. But we're still waiting on you.
And when I communed with Deb Talan, I wished she would play Comfort for you, baby, but all of her words provided such a deep solace. There is so much I want to give you. So much I wish to share with you.
If not now, soon?