When Steven and I were talking about kids (long ago, while dating and not even sure if we liked each other), I said that if I ever had three kids I'd have a mom haircut. You know... collar-bone length. Respectable.
This summer my hair got really, really long. I was on modified bedrest for a subchorionic hematoma from the beginning of May until the beginning of August. They discovered it at my eight week ultrasound and I swallowed back lots of emotions. We didn't really want to tell many people we were expecting because the looming possibility of having to undo that conversation was too heavy.
And my hair grew and grew. No mom haircuts for me. No exercising, no breastfeeding (killer; KJ wasn't ready to wean), no picking up either child or anything else for that matter, no walking except around the house, lots of "no". But all in the name of hoping that the bleed would heal and baby Redfern would live.
And then, just as my heart was about to burst out of my chest from intense feelings of all sorts and my will was beginning to weaken,
"I don't see any semblance of a bleed."
"Does that mean it's gone?"
And I did a happy dance around the sonogram room and Steven cheered me on. And the tech looked at us like we were a little nuts, which I guess we are.
And then we went to Alaska and in a fit of joy and decisiveness, I chopped off four inches of hair.
And I like it.
Number Three, you've always been a distant dream of mine that I was too afraid to realize, because I am learning how difficult it really is to bring babies into the world. I never wanted to imagine you because I was afraid you'd never come.
But you're the size of an avocado and apparently your gender is really obvious (though we do not want to know what you are! Let it be a surprise!) and I'm starting to let myself accept that I loved you long before I saw the flicker of your heartbeat on the screen.
I love you.