To say that time is flying is unbelievably trite, but it is, like, more than figuratively so. Minutes spill into hours into days into weeks; and suddenly, impossibly, it’s a new year—yours.
There’s so much that has happened since September. So much that we’ve done and still to do. (Less, though, slowly.) Because in pregnancy—and, I imagine, new parenthood, the tiny becomes the infinite, which is both a bummer and a wonder of a thing. Like, how a page of text can take and therefore be an afternoon, because sleep—because January light, and you. How, too, nesting is the realest thing, and everything hinges on the perfect diaper bag, and there is magic in a Pinterest board. And how when you’re injured on top of everything, a walk to the mailbox stretches time and ligament and is, actually, an event.
Somewhere and sometime this winter, I read a woman’s description of how in her pregnancy, her husband would often say that she was running a duathlon. As in, that morning she grew a human and walked the dog / made a meal / climbed the stairs. Cheer! I miss doing “more,” yes, but at thirty-three weeks, I love and believe that entirely.
Today, little one, we’re closer to ready than not. There are clothes in a closet and diapers in a drawer and soft landing spots aplenty. Your room is nearly done and, we hope, a haven—simple, serene, wholly yours.
Still to do? Heal my feet. Procure a hospital bag and its contents. Install a car seat. Learn to change a diaper. Learn not to be afraid of words like, flange. Nothing, everything; continual duathlons; miraculous smallness.