In the final weeks, I’d wake up at 5am almost on the dot.. I’d roll my body out of bed to go pee, and sneak away from my sleeping toddler and her dad. The two of them a tangle of sleep, dreams in unison with inhales and exhales into the darkness our living lullaby.
I’d make my way down the stairs and look out the kitchen window, noticing how the Spring sun crept earlier and earlier every rise – how it’d slip over the horizon, the warmth and rising steam from the wet fences.
I’d notice the way bird song had changed just so suddenly, it seemed.. Spring return – what we live for on this side of the world. The promise of light’s returning.
I’d inhale deeply, the scent washing over me – knowing that these moments were holy and shortly coming to an end with this mysterious babe within. Our mornings together were sacred – and I’d capture the mornings that felt significant ‘perhaps this is the last morning I will notice before the morning of this babe’s birth’
and so it was..
That morning fog settled like a blanket over the land – much like the morning as we drove to the hospital to give birth to my first, navigating foggy roads and silent conversations between my heart and womb.
That day I released to the unknown, our clock was ticking away for the choice of birthing at home to be available. I had done much crying, much shouting, much letting go. It wasn’t enough – but I had known from early on that I would give birth on this specific moon, I had simply forgotten until this past week.. and I held on to that moon and I let go of it – trying not to disappoint myself further.
There’s something about these final weeks and days of a babe within that forever capture the scent of the season. The way the light plays on the morning grass. Forever etched into my soul’s memory – swirling with my DNA. I might forgot details of their infancy, but these holy moments remain as if they are the very beat of my heart.