“Time is but the stream I go fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”–Henry David Thoreau
Time is this weird, strange, mutating thing that shakes and rocks my life in ways unimaginable.
Three years ago this month, just a week before this one, I stopped taking birth control pills. I remember the night of my birthday when friends came over to celebrate and announced their pregnancy. We started trying to grow our family from a family of two to a family of three. We had no idea that we’d face so many emotions and so many moments of me screaming “You don’t understand because this isn’t happening in YOUR body” when we were faced with a potentially harrowing battle with infertility.
There was no way to know.
And then? It happened. Two pink lines happened and WE suddenly became THREE.
Two years ago this month, I was putting away tiny baby things from my showers and waxing philosophic about how much I loved my unborn son and about how ready I was to meet him. Two years ago, I had no idea how my life would change. I had no idea how much room there was in my heart. I knew nothing. Except love. I knew there’d be love.
There was no way to know what I’d experience.
But experience it, I did. With the scars both emotional and physical to prove it. And the memories. And the now.
One year ago this month, I could only bring myself to post about failed attempts at weight loss and what I refused to voice was PPD/A. I wrote about it. But I couldn’t CALL it that. It was only that in my mind. I was fighting the battle relatively alone. I couldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t think about it. Just thought it would go away.
There was no way to know that one day I’d find a voice to talk about this in hopes of helping others.
Now? Today? I see things in a different light. And I know that MY struggle is not just my struggle. I am not alone.
In one month, my son will be two. TWO YEARS OLD.
He’ll be two and so much of the past two years is a whirlwind. So much of the past two years is incomprehensible to me. I can’t fathom where I’d put all the…all the…information? from the past two years in my brain! And somehow, I know it’s tucked away in there. The parts I don’t want to remember and the parts I do. And the parts I will never, ever forget. Like the sleepless nights. And the naps on my chest. And the baby snuggles. And the “my name Jasha”‘s. And the giggles. And the smiles. And the love.
OH. MY. GOD the love. There is love in my brain, y’all. In my BRAIN. And in my heart.
As I look back over the past three years of my life, I can’t help but marvel at the sandy bottom of this stream. At the years that have literally drifted by like water does in a river. At the years that seem like yesterday. And part of me thinks of all the years I wished away. All the time I wished would just fly right past me so I could get to this thing or that thing or some other point in my life.
I can’t help but marvel at the fact that these years, this stream of time, is headed towards the future.
Mine. And Dan’s. And Joshua’s.
Ours. My family’s future.
This is simply unimaginable. And yet? Here it is.
Tonight, not unlike a similar night three years ago I’d imagine, though I do not remember the specifics, I poured myself a glass of pinot grigio. And then another. And then I blurted out the words that have been weighing on my heart for at least a week.
Tonight I said “I think I want to have another baby.”
Tonight, while my husband was flossing his teeth, such a simple, routine act, I said it. I BURST it out. And he continued on with his night time oral hygiene regimen.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I’d been worried about what he might say for a week and, as is true Dan fashion, he was kind of non-plussed by my announcement.
(Earlier when I tried to hand him a stack of towels with a sock in the mix he reacted as if I’d tried to hand him a nuclear weapon. I drop a baby bomb and he’s all unphased and I’m just confused by that…)
I know there are miles to go before we’re ready to actually move forward. There’s medication to wean from and doctors to consult and conversations to be had and bills to be paid off and. And. And.
There’s stuff to do yet.
But the words have been said. I can’t take them back. And Dan? He can’t hide the fact that he’s slightly excited by the idea. I may have thought he’d react in a different manner, but I know him. I know he wants this.
So now, “negotiations” have commenced. I think.
And our eternity awaits.