Yesterday I picked up this used baby carrier. I washed it and sat on our back deck while Daddy mowed the lawn, and I watched YouTube tutorials on how to use it and practised looping it through, pulling it around, tightening it, and doing it all over again. The rainbow carrier made me feel excited to put a small baby in it (that’s you), snuggled to my chest, and that’s a moment that I hold tightly to.
I’ve become accustomed to perinatal depression meaning that I’m not excited to have a baby. I’m just excited to not be pregnant. And I’ve learned to accept this part of my brain and heart and biology, mostly with a shrug and sometimes with a lot of tears and anger and fear.
So when I feel that little nugget of joy or contentment or anticipation I treasure it up and ponder it in my heart.
It’s the chestnut I carry in my pocket and rub with my thumb until it is perfectly shiny.
It’s the hand I hold to my heart when I wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and reeling.
It’s the cool grass between my toes when I run outside barefoot just to take a deep breath and check that the mountains are still there. They are.
You will be here soon, kiddo, any moment now, and I will hold you close to me in a rainbow carrier.