Winnie fell asleep on our walk home from the playground, and Mike just ran to the store, and it’s late and light out, which is all reminding me of this time two years ago, when a baby was kicking around in my belly but our house was quiet and still. My mind was not quiet and still, my belly was not quiet and still, everything kept moving except the instant that would mark where our lives were going to radically change, imminently-but-not-quite-yet.
I’ve spent this whole pregnancy being present with my oldest, only, first girl, worrying and watching and feeling as though I’m taking from her even when I know I’m giving to her, that we’re growing, and that we’re all going to grow and she’s very lucky in that regard. As a result, I’ve filled little nooks and crannies with guilt about not being quite present as much as I (think I) should with the unmet, unknown, quite loved baby that I’m growing, the one I’ll know once she’s here, the one who doesn’t need me to take up her full space in this world, to be and declare that she is here. We’ll meet her, and we’ll always be the family with her, just the way that once Winnie was here, we were always the Family of Winnie.
But right now it’s quiet and still. The light doesn’t move while the air barely does. It doesn’t matter how hard any of us kick our feet or flail our arms or magic eraser all of the crayon off the walls or furiously fold and refold onesies and organize closets. We’re three now, we’ll be four soon, and at some point tonight, we’re probably all going to be hungry for pizza.
Until then, we’ll do our best to be quiet and still, to take note of those things that remain quiet and still while we do not, watchfully waiting.