At nearly noon on a bright, sunny weekday morning I am still in my robe and pajamas, just now getting around to eating breakfast while most people are pondering lunch. Friends and family who know me well might be tempted to worry. Am I sick? Am I feeling discouraged?
No, the truth is far more startling. At 56, I am pregnant. With triplets.
April Fools! But only sort of. The truth is slightly less sensational, but the metaphor of pregnancy is perfect. I have entered into intimate and passionate relations with my inner desires and am determined to carry these three babies to term: writing, music, peer support.
I’ve miscarried many bright ideas over the years. I feel this deep in the pit of my belly as these words resound in me.
This morning I awakened and realized there was good reason to be just as doting and compassionate with myself as if I truly were pregnant. Get plenty of rest, exercise and healthy food. Daydream about baby names and nursery decorations. Make a shopping list for little outfits and supplies to tuck away in preparation. Call my friends for advice on labor, delivery, mothering. Don’t overdo. Put my feet up and congratulate myself. Pay attention for those reassuring kicks.
Throw myself a doozy of a shower. And then get dressed for the day.