One Year Ago, almost.

A year ago I walked to the house of my friend Bruce to cat sit.

“Oh yes!” I said “I’ll help! I’m not too pregnant to do that bit.”

I moved with my son inside me, stretched out in front, like a basketball. Feeling ambitious and so special, planning everything, large and small.

I heard the words of other moms, recounted years before. About their baby’s birthing day, I wondered what WE had in store.

As the winter turned to spring I watched snowdrops and bluebells peep. I rolled my eyes at the advice to rest, stock up on sleep.

Practicing pre-natal yoga in Bruce’s living room, I listened for your baby name, was it Dom, Hero, or Moon?

I fed the little kitty cat, walked miles, and watched the flowers grow. I dreamed of having a sweet child with blossom’s bright to show.

We are so close to that time last March, the hour of your birth. But what I think of is the girl I was, swollen in girth.

Of course, I am excited for the marking of your year. But it’s me that I remember, as I raise a glass to cheer.

Eleven moons have passed, I’m here again to feed the kitty. Not much has changed, the world’s still masked and fearful, more’s the pity.

But every visit made to scoop the poop and help another, I’m reminded of that time when I was pregnant, not yet a mother.

Much has remained the same, how is that possible, you ask? When our world has turned full circle, it is difficult to grasp.

Reading the nursery story books to my tiny son each night, I want to write this poem to remind me what felt right.

From thirty-seven weeks expecting to my eleven month old boy, that mother-to-be waiting is the container of my joy.

As words now flow around me, I think on those days of silence. And how she longed to break them, in this conflict lies my guidance.

I hope a year from now when he’s a month away from two, I’ll be thinking fondly of this brand new mom who wrote these thoughts to you.

COVID Mom Rage