Every morning I get on my phone and open up the app that tells me how many more days until I meet this little miracle. Like groundhog’s day the scene replays itself, I give an internal sigh, coming to the realization that the days move by-one by one, and sometimes that I have already checked the damn app that day already, and that I’m staring at the same exact number.
And everyday I wonder what it will finally be like to hold my living, breathing child.
And the fear sets in. Mostly when I am alone with my thoughts. Especially at 3 in the morning, when I don’t want to wake my love up.
She gets up every morning and makes me breakfast, gets my lunch packed for me, and then takes care of everything that needs to be done. She builds, she crafts, and creates, she nourishes me and baby, she protects us. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky.
She honors her son. She calls me her baby maker. We sort of joke, and get lost a little in the irony, of how I’ve now been pregnant for close to 16 months. We wait longingly, together, for baby miracle to arrive. She watches my ever expanding body continue to house her babies, and she loves me for it.
She lays her head on my belly and waits to get kicked in the head. I daydream about her holding our baby, taking baby girl for a walk together. Being the proud mamas of this baby girl here, and her older brother in eternity. Those women who go on in this world, who from the outside, appear to be holding one baby in their arms, but are invisibly embracing and loving two in their hearts.
We go to bed, and I wake up at 3 am. And groundhog’s day repeats itself. Inching closer ever so slowly until the day when a dream becomes a reality.