It’s Saturday morning. And my son is home from college.
My children are grown. They have not a vestige of body fat left on them that I can call my own. Nothing to pinch. I do not own their sweetness any more. But still when they are here it’s like I’ve remembered to put slippers and a bathrobe on after sitting at a cold kitchen counter for hours. Some part of me just wants to hum. Like Winnie-the-Pooh with honey.
I had been dying to have children all my life. I worried I wouldn’t be able to, maybe because it was so important to me. I remember to this day my first ultrasound. I didn’t know what was going to happen – I had no idea you could hear a baby’s heartbeat at 10 weeks of pregnancy. I remember looking at my 30-year old belly. The gel they put on you so they can use the ultrasound wand is chilly. And the OB squooging the wand around. I didn’t know it, but he was searching for the heartbeat. Good thing I didn’t know it or I would have been terrified since I was terrified of everything during pregnancy that might have meant there was a problem.
The sounds at first are like the soundtrack of a submarine movie. All gurgle and swoosh. Then suddenly and quietly you hear the very quick thump thump thump. Almost closer to a pitpitpitpitpitpitpitpit. The OB said, “There it is.” And all I could think was, “Oh my god, I’m a mother.”
I still think that. And when my son is sleeping in his bed, I get to sit here with a cup of tea and warm my feet at that fire.