Jen Marie Wiggins
There is always solace in blankets. He’s learned this, my husband of nine years. I can almost see him. Shaking his head and grinning before he rips the sheets back to reveal me—a mass of blankets and tears crumpled on the bed, the last moments of a good sob still damp on my cheeks.
Your oldest understands immediately and begins to sob into his father’s chest. Your youngest is confused by his brother’s crying; you can tell he is unsure of whether or not to join him. Can we see her when she gets back? he asks. You pull him closer, kiss his hair, and whisper that Grandma won’t be coming back.
Brianne M. Kohl
I tell my friend, Erica, that I’ve decided to get back into shape. I’m sick of looking at magazines of celebrities claiming they’ve regained their bodies just six weeks post-baby. As if their bodies had gone somewhere foreign, slipped away into the ether for a time, but now they’ve returned, better than ever.
Just seeing the baby’s head wobble made her want to cry, especially since she discovered the warm circle that marked the entry to his brain. But she knew how vulnerable he was, no one had to tell her, and she wondered how any baby made it through the day.
Ama Ata Aidoo
The three together a composition so incredibly wholesome, I found myself wondering if they were all born by me, and if so, how had I managed such a feat. In early middle age, obviously settled in their lives as professional women, all suitably and comfortably married. With children. Smug.
Rae looks down at her bulbous belly. She is nothing if not a record of time. For 34 weeks her body has been counting–adding hours as the baby has added eyes and ears, skin and limbs.
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