3 years ago I underwent an epic transformation. I left the house a superorganism, my former body drastically rearranged to support the growth and development of a tiny human. I returned emptied and bloodied, not entirely sure that my body was still capable of sustaining life, particularly if the life in question happened to be my own.
Only 4 months had passed since my quiet evening in a local coffee shop, spent drinking lemonade and beaming, keeper of a secret that, in that moment, was mine alone. I hadn’t POAS yet but I was several days late and I knew. I remember marveling at just how easily, how quickly, it had happened, despite my understanding that my aging eggs owed me nothing. It felt so perfectly appropriate, springtime just barely upon us and me giddy with the promise of new life.
But on this day I remember lying in bed, wounded and unmoving but oblivious to the physical pain, watching the late afternoon sunshine as it streamed through our bedroom window. It was the bright light of high summer, the color of kickball games and block parties, intolerably cruel in it’s cheerfulness. I begged for mercy, and the swift arrival of nightfall. Yet the suns rays were steadfast and beautiful and for so long they continued to taunt me with images of watermelon juice as it dripped from so many tiny chins, reminding me that they were not, indeed might never be, mine to kiss.
Oh please let me die in the wintertime.
Today I can once again invite the sun’s warmth to linger. Today I allow us to play outdoors a little longer than responsibility dictates and kiss my little chin a little more than its tolerance allows.
And today I’m grateful to have this place where it is safe to speak this out loud. Even if only for a short time, he was here. Three years ago, he was my springtime.