On my most forgetful days, I catch myself staring at my children wondering how they could possibly come out of nothing. Pregnancy nausea, heavy belly loads, overdue due dates, marathon births and post-partum recovery are parked at the very lowest level of my consciousness as I marvel at the miracle of life.
Sharing a particularly loving moment with my eldest today, rubbing her back for warmth and wrapping her up in a towel as I fished her out of the bathtub, it suddenly occurred to me how real her presence is. Six years ago, she was an intention only, and my knowing of her existed only as longing. But not even in my most uncensored, wildest imagination could I have pictured her in her full realness and brilliance. The life force that is her, her peculiar and lovable facial expressions when confused, her richness of character, her ability to experience life through all emotions on the sensing palate (sometimes displayed in one afternoon only). To be her is to live life in radiant colours impossible to contain, ranging from bottomless sadness and raging fury to joy bursting through the seams, making her jump, dance and squeal loudly in delight.
Six years ago she was an intention; today she can wrap her lean, soapy arms around my neck and offer me love. Six years ago she was thin air, she was only a cause waiting to happen, she was action intended, she was nothing in a Newtonian universe. Six years ago, I didn’t know motherhood, didn’t know a thing about life, didn’t have the slightest idea that love could be created. By allowing her to be, we have created the ultimate loving act for ourselves and for our community; we have pushed loneliness just a little further out into space. To be human is to want to surround ourselves with other humans, and to be lucky is to have grown one such human inside.
To have a child is to have a miracle. ‘Tis the season for thoughts to go in this direction, but nevertheless, I thought it was worth pointing out why…