When your sister was born, my first ever baby, a dam broke within me and a flood of words came out in long, awe-filled, breaths, “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou”. My mouth couldn’t stop kissing her face, her fingers, her feet. I became a mother.
Your brothers came and my dam stayed broken, my love spilling everywhere and never ceasing. This is what love does. It bursts, it cascades, it floods.
I smiled as I looked down at a little plastic test; I smiled at the knowing of you, you just coming together in tiny cell divisions and intricate movements orchestrated by God Himself, down there in the deep.
I began loving you then. As God crafted you through the days and nights, giving you a heart and a beat to go with it, giving you ever-reaching arms and nubs that stretched out into fingers, as you opened your eyes for the first time to the ruby-colored pool of muted lights and sounds, as God made you, I loved you.
You have the hiccups right now, making my whole belly jump every ten seconds. I run my hand over you; you are so near and can never be nearer, but I miss you, I long for you. The swelling in my ankles is nothing compared to the swelling in my heart, the longing to kiss your face and know you with my fingertips, my eyes, my nose burrowed into your neck folds and inhaling the essence of dear you.
May God keep you safe and well, my dear baby, may He make you strong and vigorous. May He bring us both through safely in our trial to come. May we soon look into each other’s eyes in that first of many holy moments, the knowing. God bless you, dear one, God bless you and bless you again.