Dear Baby,

Before you were floating freely and kicking like a wild man in my belly, you were a wish. A dream. A hope. February 27th, there was a full moon. The Snow Moon. (Learned that one by subscribing to an astrology newsletter with zero shame). Your Dad, Willie, and I escaped to the mountains for the weekend; an effort to shake up our routine, explore far away from our screens, and play in winter wonderland. Little did we know it would be a memorable weekend for reasons beyond the snow. 

I gasped. Truly could not breathe. I read a welcoming pink word: “pregnant”. Holding the plastic stick, I clenched it, turned it over, put it down, picked it up, stared at it, put it down again, still not breathing. The amount of plastic sticks I had peed on over the past 8 months, Lord I could curse the damn things. The anticipation of flipping it over, timing the exact countdown, typically to disappointment. Pregnancy test brand number one, ovulation stick number one, pregnancy test brand number two, ovulation stick number two for good measure, you name it… we got sticks folks! 

On brand, I decided to take another test, just to be sure. Diligently squeezing out one last drop of dehydrated morning pee, I set it delicately on the sink, face down, with invisible caution tape protecting the perimeter. Waiting patiently as my cell phone timer counted down, I picked up the first stick again. Re-read the box instructions one more time, as if I didn’t know them by memory already. “Ding ding ding ding!” I jumped, the box fell, the test fell, and I was swept away to the dreaded morning alarm sound, automatically and aggressively hitting snooze. Time to flip. Deep inhale and… this time, the loss of air, the gasp, the tears, they weren’t due to yet another disappointment. They were you. They were us. Two sticks, two beings, sitting together, simply trying to breathe. 

Your Dad knew before I walked out of the bathroom. Beaming with tear blotched rosy cheeks thanks to the cold and salt, I jumped onto the couch next to him. He squeezed me tight, holding all of us, laughing unabashedly. Willie went from fast asleep to high alert, as if already knowing he needed to protect a new pack member. We watched the snow fall from the high windows of the cabin, basking in our new reality. 

It’s funny who you tell the moment you learn you’re growing a little life inside you. A monumental secret. A cautiously optimistic reality. One that you keep close to your chest, to your heart, to your soul. There’s fear, lots of fear. And there’s constant joy. Joy looking at your stomach, imagining what it would, could, look like with a bump. Joy imagining which tadpole swam the fastest, strongest, breaking bread with this egg. Joy napping in the middle of the day, without any guilt or question. Joy successfully ordering soda waters with lime at bars without anyone noticing. Knowing you’re giggling at this sneaky lie of ours right alongside me. Our little secret. 

I told my friend the acupuncturist first. I told my massage therapist. And my favorite barista down the street. I told my ceramics teacher, the woman who taught me to lean into the mud and create without a plan. Sometimes those that you consider far removed from your daily life, may actually be the closest to what really matters. 

Everything felt touch and go during those single digit weeks. There were moments of living in this imaginary future world of bliss: saying your name out loud, daydreaming about playing at the park, pushing you on the swings. And there were juxtaposed moments fueled by panic: going to the bathroom, examining the toilet paper, praying for zero tint of red. Nothing felt real. Hormonally, I was on a different planet. A place where comatose meets ecstasy, and anxiety joins the party here and there. Nothing felt real. Nothing until that heartbeat of yours. It pulsed through the sonographer’s magic sterile wand. “Whoosh, whoosh, wow, whoosh, wow.” The sound filled the room, like an ocean of waves drowning us in disbelief and endless laughter. Right then, it felt real. Really real. 

And now, here you are. August 21st. Kicking away, hosting a party with our placenta during the day and mostly night, high-fiving my bladder without a care in the world. You are safe. You are strong. The first flutter you sent me felt like the color of a gold shimmer. And it was the closest thing to magic I’ve ever whole-heartedly believed. 

You were a wish. A dream. A hope. And now you are you. So much more than magic.