First Bump
You were just a small bump, I know. Barely enough to talk about. You made smells more potent, food less compelling, and my body extra tired. Your little parts made the stick turn positive for the first time, and we were oh so happy.
We got a black and white scan of you, little bump, and went for a stroll in Central Park. We smiled from ear to ear and chuckled about how unplanned and unexpected your arrival was. It was January, and the bitter New York wind whirled around buildings and pinched our cheeks. But all we felt was the warmth of the light peak-a-booing through the trees, surprising us with a delightful hope for spring. For a few weeks you made me supple and round - swollen and soft. Hips stretching, breasts swelling. I felt gentler and slower in my thoughts and movements. I found myself smiling and crying on the train ride home from work just by the mere thought of you. Heaps of gratitude - mounds of unknown joy began to grow within me. I was so grateful to finally have you, little bump.
But one chilly morning we went to see your pitter patter, little bump, and instead we found you sleeping. The doctor turned to us and said only three words before he threw his latexy gloves in the garbage and walked out the door - "I'm so sorry." We cried on the bench in Central Park. The same place we'd walked when we met you for the first time. Strangers tried not to look at us as I laid my head on his shoulder and we both let the sorrow spill down our cheeks and onto the cobblestone path. There wasn't any sun shining through the leaves that day. The chilling air crept through our zippers, weaved in between the cables of our sweaters, and threatened to ice our hearts. It was the coldest we'd ever been. When the tears finally stopped and our shoulders ceased to shake, we held hands and made our train journey home.
We came home and I went to the bathroom. I came out and found him kneeling in the kitchen, tears silently washing the wood floor. I wove my knees between his and hugged him tight. We felt like broken pieces of ceramic vaces as we desperately clutched each other, scared that we'd fall apart if we let go. The struggle that we thought was over, indeed was not.
We felt mad for a while, little bump. Sad for a while too. But time went by and we knew somehow we'd be ok. We were happy for the hope you brought with you. We were glad we finally got to say to ourselves, "We're pregnant!" We were grateful our faith was tested when you had to leave. We were even more grateful that we still knew He loved us and everything would someday be made right.
You were just a small bump.
But we loved you so.
We got a black and white scan of you, little bump, and went for a stroll in Central Park. We smiled from ear to ear and chuckled about how unplanned and unexpected your arrival was. It was January, and the bitter New York wind whirled around buildings and pinched our cheeks. But all we felt was the warmth of the light peak-a-booing through the trees, surprising us with a delightful hope for spring. For a few weeks you made me supple and round - swollen and soft. Hips stretching, breasts swelling. I felt gentler and slower in my thoughts and movements. I found myself smiling and crying on the train ride home from work just by the mere thought of you. Heaps of gratitude - mounds of unknown joy began to grow within me. I was so grateful to finally have you, little bump.
But one chilly morning we went to see your pitter patter, little bump, and instead we found you sleeping. The doctor turned to us and said only three words before he threw his latexy gloves in the garbage and walked out the door - "I'm so sorry." We cried on the bench in Central Park. The same place we'd walked when we met you for the first time. Strangers tried not to look at us as I laid my head on his shoulder and we both let the sorrow spill down our cheeks and onto the cobblestone path. There wasn't any sun shining through the leaves that day. The chilling air crept through our zippers, weaved in between the cables of our sweaters, and threatened to ice our hearts. It was the coldest we'd ever been. When the tears finally stopped and our shoulders ceased to shake, we held hands and made our train journey home.
We came home and I went to the bathroom. I came out and found him kneeling in the kitchen, tears silently washing the wood floor. I wove my knees between his and hugged him tight. We felt like broken pieces of ceramic vaces as we desperately clutched each other, scared that we'd fall apart if we let go. The struggle that we thought was over, indeed was not.
We felt mad for a while, little bump. Sad for a while too. But time went by and we knew somehow we'd be ok. We were happy for the hope you brought with you. We were glad we finally got to say to ourselves, "We're pregnant!" We were grateful our faith was tested when you had to leave. We were even more grateful that we still knew He loved us and everything would someday be made right.
You were just a small bump.
But we loved you so.
Comments
You two bring hope and light to a dark world.