I hope I remember these days.
I hope I remember because I know he won’t.
He won’t remember these two years before his sister was born. When we rocked and played and held onto each other. When we took long baths and wandered to the park, holding hands. When we woke up slowly and had first snows, first summers, first toes in the ocean. When we became each others.
I hope I remember these days, this family of three. Not to mourn its loss, but to treasure what it was. Three warm bodies in a soft bed. Newborn coos, toddler cries, clammy hands around my neck. The sweet breath of a boy who has always wanted to be close by. One hand on his daddy’s arm, the other on my chest.
We anticipate this Christmas baby with blind hope. The only thing I know for sure is what I gain. Another heavy weight on my heart. Another human to breathe in. It is a gift and a burden to love so deeply.
The first baby is a giant experiment. They guide us into parenthood. We become mothers and fathers with their midnight screaming and morning smiles. We stretch until it seems we will break. It is beautiful and messy. It is loud and so startling quiet.
I hope I remember the weight of it all.
It is something to be remembered.