Two years ago today. It's an anniversary, this day. It marks the anniversary of when I took a nervous trip to Target, among other things. It marks the day that I frantically paced the house, among other things. It marks the anniversary of when I gave Sean an early Christmas present, wrapped in a small long box. It marks the day that I found out I was pregnant.
The thing I love about seasons is their ability to unearth feelings that have settled deep inside, so that you actually begin to feel them again. This is something recalling a mere memory can't quite do. It's funny, and by funny I guess I mean pretty danged awesome that this monumental life event took place at this particular time of year, the same time that we think about other babies (or one baby) and miracles and miraculous babies. What a true gift this is, that I can have this again and again, heightened by the season. These emotions are stirred up so poignantly for me. I couldn't really talk about this last year because I started sobbing at the thought every day for about a week and you wouldn't even be able to understand me through all my blubbering, and I write how I talk, so... (trailing off)
I wrote this last year, and am publishing it today, one year later.
I went to Target today. I bought toilet paper, and diapers and some medicine and toothpicks. And when I realize what I'm doing, it all seems so surreal. Exactly one year ago something befell me that was supposed to be impossible. And my world, my perception of the world and how it is and can even be, crashed to the floor in a heap of shards of nonsense. I feel those feelings again. I feel the implications of that discovery. I look at and squeeze the result, what actually came to pass believe it or not (I still don't), [and i still don't] and I don't understand. I don't understand. How did this happen? I don't understand. And I sense the taste of humility that a walk to Target on December 8 can strangely bring.
Merry Christmastime of miraculous babies to you.