He puts his hand on my belly and closes his eyes. He looks like he’s concentrating deeply. I try to hold my breath so I don’t disrupt his concentration. “E aí?” I ask. I want to know if he felt her strong kicks, the gymnastics she practices inside of me. He concentrates deeper, and I focus on his expressionless face.
We’ve known each other for eight months. I’ve been pregnant for four of them. We take each day as it comes, opting not to plan the next. Each month trudges along, the pace of life here much slower than anywhere else I’ve lived. I guess you could say it feels like eight years, really.
On good days, I think how amazing it is that we’ve connected so strongly without hesitation. I think about how many things we’ve done and conquered in such a short amount of time. I think of the fears we held from our past relationships, and how together we overcame them.
On bad days, I envy the couples with years of experiences between them before they decide to permanently change their lives with mini versions of themselves. I think about how it will never be just the two of us ever again—staying in bed until it’s well past noon, walking around the house, shamelessly clothes-less, forgetting to eat hours past mealtime, because our minds are preoccupied elsewhere, our bodies entangled between the sheets. I think about how our youth will fly by with diaper changes and tantrums, but also little drawings of Mommy and Daddy, and themed birthday parties.
The baby chose us. We knew she was coming, though she wasn’t necessarily planned. We knew she was coming, and we did nothing to stop her arrival. He called her our little piece of love.
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