Three months ago, when I saw my baby jump, kick and wave a hand to us during a routine ultrasound, I proudly exclaimed that it was the best feeling in the world.
I was wrong.
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Our little girl’s face (frontal view) via 2D Ultrasound
Mimicking Angelina Jolie.
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Over time, I realized there’s a room for firsts, a lot of doors that open to best moments once you become pregnant: that first flutter inside your belly and a synchronous wave on the outside. The first time you see her heart beat, a vigorous and enthusiastic pace. The first time your OB GYNE tells you, “It’s a girl”, and you remember a dream years ago, where you see your first child – a daughter – in a crimson dress, running around with your dad.
That all happened in one week. This week, so to say.
When I saw her face, a blur of blacks and whites, boxed in that tiny sonogram screen, for a moment I was able to peer into a future. One that’s brimming with possibilities, woven into intricate details.
I saw the sleepless nights, nursing her and humming her lullabies as her fragile body tries to fit in a peculiar world. I saw how she would falter and get wounded during her first baby steps. I saw her marching on her graduation. I saw how she would have her heart broken a first time, her somber tears like daggers in my chest.
I saw how one day I would, perhaps, walk her down the aisle and how sad it would be to lead her away from us, towards a life of her own. I saw how months from now, my responsibilities will transition from merely being a wife to being a wife and a mother.
I saw that despite how difficult and taxing all that might be, I couldn’t be more thrilled to finally meet her and tread that journey with her. I saw how incredibly blessed I am to be carrying this tiny, live mass of colossal futures in me.
I feel her in my navel and speak to her in secret. Just four more months, ma petite. Four months.
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