Being a home

On Motherhood: You’ve brought a focus to my life, moved me from the peripheral.

I slipped on the same simple black dress and turtleneck every week, feeling the fabric hug my body as you grew. I tracked your growth by the way the cotton stretched. The way the hemline inched up my thighs. The way my hand rested on the ever-growing curve of my hip.

I stood in front of the big window. The one covered in a blurry film to block out the details of the outside world. The shapes of the walnut tree and its drooping leaves dissolved into the sky. The world outside of us, vague and soft focus. Blotted out. Erasing the sharp edges while still letting the light in.

I slid my hand under my belly to cradle you. The skin stretching effortlessly to meet your growth, as if it had always been ready to make a home for you. My fingers fanning out, creating more space in-between, to feel the whole of you. To say, “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

Every week your dad clicked the shutter. Click. Click. Click. Until those weeks turned into months and I could no longer see my feet.

I wanted you to look back on these photos of us and be reminded of home. I wanted you to know that you were loved from the start. 

From the first time I skipped wine with dinner as a just in case. 

From the first pregnancy test. And the second and the third. 

The first time I read Steinbeck out loud in hopes that you could hear the words. 

The first time I caressed my stomach to show you that I was there. 

The first time I dreamed what your face would look like and I cried because we were at the sea and I couldn’t wait to feel your salt-covered skin against mine. 

The first time I brought you to the coast to listen to the ocean. My body was still your home and I stood in the soft waves so you could feel their power.

The first time we listened to Bob Dylan and I told you about the magic of music and how that was the way your daddy found my heart.

The first time I took you swimming in the icy rivers of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Three days later, you arrived.

The world was in chaos — the light forever dwindling. Our home wasn’t ready. We didn’t have the diapers or the bottles or the mobile over the crib. But the home I’d been creating, nourishing — the home that was me — was ready. 

I hadn’t realized it then, but when I was growing you and making a home, you were growing me, too. You were showing me how to be gentle with my heart and my body for it no longer only belonged to me. It belonged to you, too. You were showing me that it was okay to ask for help. That being honest with your need is a strength, not a weakness.

And now, six months have passed. My body is no longer growing, but my mind is. My heart. The very core of my existence. You’ve brought a purpose into my life when before there was only a yearning. A grasping. You’ve brought a focus to my life, moved me from the peripheral to the raw center. To the details. The meaning. The truth. 

You’ve shown me how to slow down to the particulars. The rest of the world blurring beyond us just like the photos your dad took of us. Click. Click. Click. You’ve shown me that we’ve always had all that we need. A home. In me and in you. A home in each other.