As I am off this week, I’m republishing some Saturday posts. This was the first, from back in 2009.
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 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.