Eleven weeks. They still pass slowly, but I am more certain. I feel more curious – not the agitated curious that googles everything I do not know so I don’t accidentally eat/drink/smell/move/breathe something harmful (so many things I do not know!), but the sort of curious that is open, amused, thoughtful, the sort of curious that has sweater pockets bursting with new things.

It is alarming to care more. When we were dating and first married, I realized how deeply I had come to really truly love Jeff, which is silly to even write, but this realization made me more fearful than I had anticipated because I had something I did not want to lose.
It sounds very selfish and cold-hearted to say, but it is the truth – I have not cared for many people very much. Even those closest to me I have often held at a distance. I have been apprehensive to have children because I didn’t know if I would ever have a maternal leaning, if I could even survive the sacrifice, much less come to enjoy it.

My heart shifts, my body alters and I am becoming. I am embodied. Having always held others at a distance, grown restless or wary of too much touch, I am inhabited. We are all here, all three of us, and we are loved. The joy slipped in, unexpected, but now wrestling to get in the door is the doom. When I am strong, I reframe it – the doom is just urgency to treat one another with great affection and respect. When I am weak, the doom settles over me and pins me wide-eyed to the bed.