Means 87 blissfully unread emails have flooded my inbox. It was a day of getting things done and facing fears, putting in work and growing good and tired.
We tailored A’s pants, we found books at long last, we got free parking in exchange for juice (sweet juice), we dropped off sweaters and returned texts and then we made our way to the dreaded, necessary ultrasound. Why dreaded? Heat, cavitation, and unspindling of his dear little myelin sheaths. Why necessary? Dr. Martinez says he will not see us as patients if we refused it. So our dear little boy was subject to an hour’s worth of applied, radiating energy with my grudging but nonetheless existing assent. Regret does not make betrayal any less bitter and I feel as though I handed my son over today. Others get ultrasounds and their babes are alright; I can only pray ours is too. These dangers are not what I want though: so much seems out of my control. I truly shudder at the hospital birth. On the other hand, I don’t want to be hippy dippy: I want to know what’s right and I want to do that. The trouble is that so much of everything seems to be opinion. Where’s fact? Where’s truth?
Under the stars in the great wide wild world.
Or here, where all you can think of is the next breath.
Or in a dad’s heavy joy when he sees his son’s fingers and toes and little heartbeat outlined sound waves .
Or in the depths of a sweet pup’s loving eyes.
Or in the butterfly kicks of a tiny life.