almost there
At 36 weeks, I am almost there.
My hands and feet are swollen. I’m tired but pressing ahead with my husband to prepare our home for our son’s coming. The crib is assembled; my husband is working on the dresser. Later, I’ll wash an assembly of tiny clothes in stripes and solids — including onesies so diminutive they seem, themselves, marvels of creation.
I sing soft songs to my belly and feel my son shift slightly inside me in response. His movements — once forceful kicks and fluttering fists — are becoming more subtle now as he begins to run out of room.
I place my hands on the skin of my stomach and gently ask him to be still, to calm down. I make quiet shushing sounds and lightly rub the hard bumps of his back and bottom, their outlines made clear against the watermarks left by my fingers. I take it as a hopeful sign for our future relationship that he responds to my voice and settles under my touch.
Already, we have our own language. I expect that it will grow. I will see to it.
It is increasingly more challenging to be patient as my energy shifts and my body expands, but occasionally, I feel it — the clear sense of having signed myself over. The release of what I can’t control. I expect that will grow, too.
In the difficult stretches, which come and go like the ripples of deep river water, I tell myself —
“Be slow; be at ease; hold steady; breathe. He’s on his way. You all are on your way, and that’s enough for now.”
And I listen, and I slow my pace a little. I sink into the seconds and release my senses to course through long moments. To be present, to absorb.
The rhythm of this life, of our lives curling together, is gorgeous.
The midwives say our son could arrive any time between two weeks before or after his due date. I think he may come earlier, though that may be wishful thinking. Either way, we discount whether we have the right number of onesies and diapers and bottles — we are as ready as we can be.
I stop counting down the days and focus on meditations. I picture my son as a small boat in the deep recesses of me, spaces somehow infinitely known and unknown, familiar and untested. I am a lighthouse, a constant witness to his ebb and flow.
Our time grows short. He is trying to find his way; I am guiding him home.
