The induction was scheduled for 5:00am on a Tuesday. My husband Andy and I drove to the hospital before any of the new day’s light had cracked open the edges of night. We held hands walking to the check-in desk, nervous about the labor and excited to meet our daughter, Anthem. Our two-year-old son was at home with his grandparents, sleeping peacefully and not yet grokking how he was about to become a big brother to a little sister.

When his small body is still from the busyness of being two (feet have stopped their bouncing and tapping, hands have relaxed from reaching and examining, voice has quieted from babbling and humming, eyes have closed from seeking and learning) and is finally asleep, I fly to his room in a quiet bound. Slowly turn the door handle. Softly tiptoe into the darkened room. Gently lift his head and place it back on the pillow. Pull the dangling feet and arms out from the crib railings. Snuggle his Teddy bear and fox beside him and tuck a light blanket over him. If he stirs or startles, opening his eyes to see who’s there, I whisper to him, “It’s okay, I’m just tucking you in. It’s still time to sleep. I love you.”

Outdoors, I find gifts for my son:

White, hollow snail shells

Rocks with holes or bits of glimmer

Fresh dandelions. 

On nature walks, his dimpled hands

Point, gather, receive.

There’s a kind of newborn love which is utterly wild to me. The love arrives with the infant, taking up space in your heart you didn’t know was there. I stare at my baby in total adoration. I am enamored with everything about her. The tiny features. The tender nature of how delicate and needy she is, yet how quickly she is growing in size and movements. The coos, squeaks, and grunts. The smiles which are delighted by light and motion.

One day the boats were all unmoored

 and pulled into the sea

They drifted till, by storms and time,

 they sunk mercilessly. 

As I drove away, an image of my grandpa Juan came to mind. His livelihood had been growing and selling produce, such as sandia (watermelon). He too had a beard of white stubble, one which contrasted with his dark skin. I have memories of visiting grandpa Juan at a flea market, his large, canvas-covered truck bed filled with ripe watermelons. Although we didn’t get to see him very often, and although his Spanglish was sometimes tricky for my siblings and I to understand, he was always happy to see us. A generous smile would unfold from his face and he’d call out, “Mijos! Mijas!” (my sons, my daughters).

While pregnant, there are days when I am ravenous. I awake hungry and never seem to fill. I grow shaky before lunch and can’t suppress the need for a snack before bed. I run a hand along the curve of my belly, where my baby is growing steadily. My body is a vessel, and I am less in control of it than ever before. I cannot know why there are days my body demands more food, or feels sick, or leaves me exhausted. I can only trust the signals it sends me for rest or nourishment, understanding that miraculously, though I have no conscious part in it, my body is developing and sustaining a human being.

I don’t know why your mood can shift like a cloud

why you’re unhappy after breakfast

not wanting to stand on your new step stool and brush your teeth

You’re twenty months and ten days old, my son

and you cannot tell me what pushes sundry feelings to the surface

and you may not even know yourself

For several years (too long in the rearview mirror of life) I worked for a woman who prided herself on saying whatever she was thinking without apology. We were working at our desks in our small office one day when she made a pointed observation.

“You roll your r’s sometimes. Thrrrree!!” she chirped with a laugh like a short bark. “I’m going to call you Little Hispanic Girl.”

“I am Hispanic,” I replied, uncomfortable with the expression of self-satisfied amusement she wore.

Hair mussed

Sleep still slipping

from the corners of my eyes

Coffee piping

Rain chilly, pattering on the tin roof

of the first home which is fully ours.

The autumn afternoon was sunny and crisp. I was playing outside with my one and a half year old son, Ocean, when we heard the hum of an engine overhead.

“Look! It’s a biplane,” I told him, crouching down and pointing to the speck of aircraft skimming through the sky. By accident one day while driving down an unfamiliar road, I’d discovered a small airport on a hill just a few miles from our house. Ever since, I’d taken special note of the single-engine planes which would often buzz overhead, criss-crossing the sky as though sending me a message. Watching with my son, my heart twisted with an old ache.

“Self Storage” read the sign

(a little worn with time, like the best of us).

An intriguing idea, so

I pulled into the parking lot,

meandering inside.

Throughout my day, so often it becomes part of the normal rhythm of motherhood, it’s easy to be prodded by small worries about my young son, Ocean.

“Has he eaten enough? Is he hot or cold? On track developmentally? Sleeping enough? Well-stimulated?”

Many of these worries are vital to his care and are easily remedied or assured. Yet there will always be times I worry in vain. I imagine the worst, only to be surprised by the best.

Most mornings, I put my toddler, Ocean, into the jogging stroller and take him for a walk or run. Normally a bundle of rambunctious energy, on our walks Ocean enjoys just looking around and taking in the morning air, often with one foot popped up on the front railing.

Rain folded the frozen earth in her arms, said

“Let me embrace you awhile. Let us transform.”

A world hard as geode, scintillating. 

Glassy overcoats of ice for all the trees

Lovely changelings, till the branches, with dismay, 

Succumbed: the new weight pulling, cracking, crashing.

At home, I spend a fair bit of time looking through the glass doors onto our back porch and yard. In the mornings, the edge of the sun is just visible as it rises over the tree tops. The light sparkles across silken spider webs strung daintily between the porch railings, evidence of nocturnal work.

In late 2020, I began training in the hopes of running my first marathon. I’d run a half marathon a few years prior and decided to go for the big one. It was both exciting and intimidating. I’d run several 5k’s (3.1 miles) and even more10k’s (6.2). Training for the half marathon (13.1 miles) was a leap. It was a solid two hours of running without a break, so to double that for the full marathon (a whopping 26.2 miles), knowing I’d be running for about four hours straight, felt huge. There was a part of me which didn’t know if I could do it, yet another part of me knew I had to try.

Day 1: It’s a couple of hours after I’ve given birth. In the minutes following the delivery of my son, my breath came in ragged gulps. Seeing my baby for the first time, held aloft between my knees by the doctor, I cried with joy and relief while gasping for air after the great effort of pushing. As I held him to my chest, someone pressed firmly on my stomach until the placenta came out, the afterbirth, and finally I was covered and allowed to sit up. My baby latched onto my breast right away, and I marveled at the utterly new sensation of feeding a human – my son - from my body.

Lightning trembles across the night sky

White punches which glaze the deep blue darkness

in shades of purple

(a bit of royalty, a bit of a bruise).

My annual compilation of songs and albums which became meaningful to me during the previous year.