A memory from before the beginning
Though he isn’t here yet, there are already a thousand things I want to remember about my son. The silky tufts of newborn hair. The tiny nose. The perfect toes. The midnight cries I know are coming.
But right now, in these last weeks of carrying him, it’s this I want to hold on to most: the movements. The way he makes himself known with kicks, twists, and rolls. For nine months, wherever I’ve gone, he’s gone. Whatever I’ve done, he’s done too. He reminds me constantly — as if I could forget — that he’s here.
I want to remember his dad’s hand pressed against my belly, both of us waiting for the next ripple of movement, laughing when it finally comes. I want to remember staring down in awe as my stomach shifts and rolls: our son, alive and dancing inside me.
Someday he’ll be a teenager who thinks we’re uncool, then a grown man who loves someone else more than me. But even then, I want to remember this: once, he lived inside me, and every step I took, we took together.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for parents to let go. You spend months with your child literally part of you, and even when they’re grown, some part of you never stops feeling the kicks.
No comments