Friday evening. Nearly 7 o’clock. We are in bed already. H is asleep next to me, a lump under the blankets, breathing slow and constant. She will be pleased to know that she is not snoring. Charleydog is curled snugly in a ball, sleeping between us. And Salcat stretches out between my legs, green eyes closed tight; he is drunk on the evening sun shining on his face. he smiles. And lucy is on the floor, snoring on her back, legs straight up in the air.
And here I am, wide awake with Annie Dillard’s recent novel. The baby is rolling back and forth in my belly, just under my ribs. If I touch my fingers to my flat belly button, she wriggles, ticklish. This is how I communicate with my daughter. Palms and fingers pressing and poking until she replies. I tell her not to be afraid to be born, that we’ll find our way through the process. I tell myself the same thing. Over and over.
Our whole lives are happening on this sleepy Friday evening. Everything is silence and sunshine and breathing. Our bedroom is big and in transition. Backpacks full of unpacked clothing. An empty dresser. Bare beige walls. I often refuse to let myself fully be where I am when there are details left undone. When the walls are painted, laundry sorted, nausea departed, then I will savor the perfection of now.
I miss a lot of perfect moments.
But not this one. This is us in our home. Resting. Nesting. Sal is purring in his sleep now. And the baby is quiet, sleeping and growing and silently preparing for the descent soon. Everything is in its right place.