The Small Growth
(Sap, sappier, sappiest: Be forewarned)
My cat, my favorite cat even though one probably shouldn't admit there are favorites, is sleeping in front of the door to this room, like a guard cat. He is quite possibly the most cozy, noodle-like, perfect cat in the whole world. (If the digital hadn't run out of batteries, and we had replacements in the house, I'd post a picture of him.) If, when, we have children, undoubtedly he'll be the one they dress up in baby clothes, although by that time he'll be an old man.
The windows are open all over the house. This makes me enormously happy. In this room I am in, which will become the baby's room, the light feels gentle and the breeze slips through the room. If, when, we have children, I can imagine how the air will move across their baby heads while sleeping, curtains softly pushed out and the birds fly near the house to try and catch a glance of their perfectness.
Yesterday, finally, our lawn was sprayed with seed. It's not dirt anymore, and even though there's no grass, there's still a green haze surrounding us. When we built this house, we broke the bank on the windows, and Partner has said more than once that her favorite part of this house is the windows-- everywhere there's a view. This morning she stood at the back window and commented on how much more peaceful it looks, and how excited she was about the new grass. I sat up in bed, and looked at her face watching the small growth in the backyard. The small growth. If, when, we have children, we will take them onto to that grass. We have figured out exactly which large tree at the back property line will take the tree-swing.
Everywhere lately it seems like I am seeing the world lighten until it's so rich it's hardly comprehendable. The geraniums look more pink than ever. The dust on the car, more thick. I am looking at everything with this new sense-- a sense that I might be having a baby sooner rather than later. This is something I've thought about for a long time. It's become concrete in a new way. What does this lightness look like to Partner? On the day of the HSG, we sat on the back deck with our drinks, and she said to me, "I'll never feel a little foot pressing against my stomach." If that is what you want, what you've dreamed of feeling, isn't that newly formed foot a form of lightness?
When my grandmother died, it was February. It was perfect. The world complied with my grief. At the cemetery, the wind pulled our long black coats from our body, we huddled together when we walked to the grave side, the priest's long vestments snapped. Our tears froze on our cheeks. Everywhere was white, except for where it was grey. I have never been more pleased with winter. In the summer when I see funeral processions glide down the road, the windows up in all those cars, the sun bearing down on the mourners heads, I feel horrible for them. What an affront. What a fuck-up. When someone you love dies, and nature is not yielding to your grief, it can't help but feel like yet another betrayal from the world.
No one has died here. And you shouldn't get the feeling we're moping about with the news about Partner. She reminds me, religiously, to take my prenatals. We've talked about the shift from her to me as baby-carrier. I've asked her if I should keep my impending excitement to myself, and God love her, she's said absolutely not. She's excited too. But I can't help but think of the small growth inside her uterus. The one that's keeping the baby out of there. Does it color these unbelievable early summer days? And God-willing, does the fact that I may get pregnant feel like sun on a funereal day? I know my partner, and she's one of the most upbeat and truly joyful people in the entire world, so I am pretty sure I am putting emotions I would be having onto her. She's been doing much research and talking to doctors about surgeries she might have, and hopes she still might get a baby in her belly. It's just like her actually-- Tell her she can't, and she'll find a way. (Much like my grandmother, incidentally.)
Still, the small growth is here-- in the backyard, in her uterus, in my hope, in our love.
My cat, my favorite cat even though one probably shouldn't admit there are favorites, is sleeping in front of the door to this room, like a guard cat. He is quite possibly the most cozy, noodle-like, perfect cat in the whole world. (If the digital hadn't run out of batteries, and we had replacements in the house, I'd post a picture of him.) If, when, we have children, undoubtedly he'll be the one they dress up in baby clothes, although by that time he'll be an old man.
The windows are open all over the house. This makes me enormously happy. In this room I am in, which will become the baby's room, the light feels gentle and the breeze slips through the room. If, when, we have children, I can imagine how the air will move across their baby heads while sleeping, curtains softly pushed out and the birds fly near the house to try and catch a glance of their perfectness.
Yesterday, finally, our lawn was sprayed with seed. It's not dirt anymore, and even though there's no grass, there's still a green haze surrounding us. When we built this house, we broke the bank on the windows, and Partner has said more than once that her favorite part of this house is the windows-- everywhere there's a view. This morning she stood at the back window and commented on how much more peaceful it looks, and how excited she was about the new grass. I sat up in bed, and looked at her face watching the small growth in the backyard. The small growth. If, when, we have children, we will take them onto to that grass. We have figured out exactly which large tree at the back property line will take the tree-swing.
Everywhere lately it seems like I am seeing the world lighten until it's so rich it's hardly comprehendable. The geraniums look more pink than ever. The dust on the car, more thick. I am looking at everything with this new sense-- a sense that I might be having a baby sooner rather than later. This is something I've thought about for a long time. It's become concrete in a new way. What does this lightness look like to Partner? On the day of the HSG, we sat on the back deck with our drinks, and she said to me, "I'll never feel a little foot pressing against my stomach." If that is what you want, what you've dreamed of feeling, isn't that newly formed foot a form of lightness?
When my grandmother died, it was February. It was perfect. The world complied with my grief. At the cemetery, the wind pulled our long black coats from our body, we huddled together when we walked to the grave side, the priest's long vestments snapped. Our tears froze on our cheeks. Everywhere was white, except for where it was grey. I have never been more pleased with winter. In the summer when I see funeral processions glide down the road, the windows up in all those cars, the sun bearing down on the mourners heads, I feel horrible for them. What an affront. What a fuck-up. When someone you love dies, and nature is not yielding to your grief, it can't help but feel like yet another betrayal from the world.
No one has died here. And you shouldn't get the feeling we're moping about with the news about Partner. She reminds me, religiously, to take my prenatals. We've talked about the shift from her to me as baby-carrier. I've asked her if I should keep my impending excitement to myself, and God love her, she's said absolutely not. She's excited too. But I can't help but think of the small growth inside her uterus. The one that's keeping the baby out of there. Does it color these unbelievable early summer days? And God-willing, does the fact that I may get pregnant feel like sun on a funereal day? I know my partner, and she's one of the most upbeat and truly joyful people in the entire world, so I am pretty sure I am putting emotions I would be having onto her. She's been doing much research and talking to doctors about surgeries she might have, and hopes she still might get a baby in her belly. It's just like her actually-- Tell her she can't, and she'll find a way. (Much like my grandmother, incidentally.)
Still, the small growth is here-- in the backyard, in her uterus, in my hope, in our love.
posted by Katie at 8:51 AM
6 Comments:
Best of luck to her and to you. I linked you, hope you don't mind. Anyone who is a softball fanatic and lists The Committments as her favorite movie is someone I want to read. :)
Did you see me last night speeding down the street singing "Destination Anywhere"? Seriously! I was blaring Committments yesterday! Of course I don't mind being linked-- quite an honor, actually. Thank you!
Oh, that was you! I was wondering.. hee hee
This post is absolutely ravishing, and heartbreaking, and inspiring, and definitely not sappy.
wow...you write beautifully. When do you go in for your insemination? I am v excited for both you and your partner. Hope is a good thing.
Seriously. You guys...
Maybe I just felt sappy when writing it... a little leaky and weepy.
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