home stretch
I am 38 weeks pregnant today.
I am tired. A fatigue that almost feels exquisite, boasting its own radial warmth. A tired that insomnia still deems as brittle seed pod beneath its anchor. When there isn’t sleep, I read. A steady shift of one leaning tower(to-read) to a new, equally crooked stack(read). I keep finding new things to clean and sort and organize around our home. That nesting instinct is sewn into muscle. Chris pleads with me to slow down but it’s incredibly difficult to fight the urge. So, I stack the freezer with meals for after her arrival. I rearrange every closet, donate a mountain of irrelevants. When confined to my desk for work, I switch my focus—gutting my email inbox, abolishing archives and organizing poem drafts, publishing submissions. It’s fascinating—this innate craving for order and preparation wherever I can get it.
In awe. This body, goddamn. I thought I knew her. I thought lifelong athletics taught me all I needed to know about her limits and resilience. That resilience. I underestimated myself, which is not a new habit by any means. But it is a habit to drop kick out of my orbit after this experience. Doubt has wasted so much of my energy. Aiming low, expecting the worst—serves me nothing. I deadlifted and squatted heavy into my third trimester. Melanin darkened as the hormones rolled in, bringing on a fresh spray of freckles and shadow to flesh. Some days my ankles could rival balloons. My carpal tunnel intensified her snarl. My mane has grown at a sprinter's pace. I’ve been forced to slow down in every dimension, to carry less, to surrender over and over again to this incredible process. Of course I can still be driven to tears when I try to put on shoes(by the way, I haven’t been able to wear my own pairs for over a month now—I wear my husbands or slippers since nothing else fits). I do miss moving quickly and managing four things at once. There’s plenty of time to overwhelm myself in the future, I suppose.
I play her music and read her poems. Otis Redding, Ada Limon, Deafheaven, Saul Williams and Blackalicious, Mary Oliver. I watch things that move me and hope somehow she can feel the internal magic of it, that specific, gorgeous swoon that art always offers me. I hope she can absorb this more than the despair I’ve been feeling for this world lately. My days feel numbered in regards to completely protecting her from it all. I want to cherish these final moments of her rolling in my middle, extending one foot into my ribs until I wince. I never, ever want to forget her father’s eyes widening as he watches the alien-esque lump of her roam from one side of my middle to the other. Or how good dancing feels with this profound heaviness dictating new gravity, how powerful it feels just being present in this current form. God I feel so powerful, and beautiful. I feel unfuckwithable. I feel intentional and strong. How is it possible to feel more like myself than ever but also forever changed?
And I’ve been so consumed with her impending arrival that spring has started to sneak up on me—the birds are making their presence known, the temperatures are slowly swinging back in my favor. Bits of the air smell like dirt again—new green necks of daffodils yawn near mailbox, house’s bend. It feels so good to welcome my daughter in spring. Metaphor of it all unlost on me.
Little one, I am ready for you, whenever you are. My greatest love from day one. You, my most precious creation. The ultimate poem.
I am tired. A fatigue that almost feels exquisite, boasting its own radial warmth. A tired that insomnia still deems as brittle seed pod beneath its anchor. When there isn’t sleep, I read. A steady shift of one leaning tower(to-read) to a new, equally crooked stack(read). I keep finding new things to clean and sort and organize around our home. That nesting instinct is sewn into muscle. Chris pleads with me to slow down but it’s incredibly difficult to fight the urge. So, I stack the freezer with meals for after her arrival. I rearrange every closet, donate a mountain of irrelevants. When confined to my desk for work, I switch my focus—gutting my email inbox, abolishing archives and organizing poem drafts, publishing submissions. It’s fascinating—this innate craving for order and preparation wherever I can get it.
In awe. This body, goddamn. I thought I knew her. I thought lifelong athletics taught me all I needed to know about her limits and resilience. That resilience. I underestimated myself, which is not a new habit by any means. But it is a habit to drop kick out of my orbit after this experience. Doubt has wasted so much of my energy. Aiming low, expecting the worst—serves me nothing. I deadlifted and squatted heavy into my third trimester. Melanin darkened as the hormones rolled in, bringing on a fresh spray of freckles and shadow to flesh. Some days my ankles could rival balloons. My carpal tunnel intensified her snarl. My mane has grown at a sprinter's pace. I’ve been forced to slow down in every dimension, to carry less, to surrender over and over again to this incredible process. Of course I can still be driven to tears when I try to put on shoes(by the way, I haven’t been able to wear my own pairs for over a month now—I wear my husbands or slippers since nothing else fits). I do miss moving quickly and managing four things at once. There’s plenty of time to overwhelm myself in the future, I suppose.
I play her music and read her poems. Otis Redding, Ada Limon, Deafheaven, Saul Williams and Blackalicious, Mary Oliver. I watch things that move me and hope somehow she can feel the internal magic of it, that specific, gorgeous swoon that art always offers me. I hope she can absorb this more than the despair I’ve been feeling for this world lately. My days feel numbered in regards to completely protecting her from it all. I want to cherish these final moments of her rolling in my middle, extending one foot into my ribs until I wince. I never, ever want to forget her father’s eyes widening as he watches the alien-esque lump of her roam from one side of my middle to the other. Or how good dancing feels with this profound heaviness dictating new gravity, how powerful it feels just being present in this current form. God I feel so powerful, and beautiful. I feel unfuckwithable. I feel intentional and strong. How is it possible to feel more like myself than ever but also forever changed?
And I’ve been so consumed with her impending arrival that spring has started to sneak up on me—the birds are making their presence known, the temperatures are slowly swinging back in my favor. Bits of the air smell like dirt again—new green necks of daffodils yawn near mailbox, house’s bend. It feels so good to welcome my daughter in spring. Metaphor of it all unlost on me.
Little one, I am ready for you, whenever you are. My greatest love from day one. You, my most precious creation. The ultimate poem.
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