What 26 meant

One year ago today, I woke up 26 and pregnant. Technically, of course, I was pregnant while 25, but not consciously so. After staring at that plus sign for several unbelieving minutes and informing one unbelieving Josh (though this baby was not unplanned), we went for breakfast at IHOP.

The world looked magical. I felt no different than the day before--the weeks of slight nausea and major fatigue were still impending--but I saw differently. The baby at the next table was transformed from a cute smile to a wonderful potentiality. I was already in love.

I carried this sweet secret with me during the party that night, though I felt like I'd swallowed a ray of light that would shine forth upon every opening of my eyes and mouth. It seemed so obvious that this miracle was inside of me.

And so the year continued. I experienced slight physical discomforts and not so slight anxieties. But mostly the feeling grew in exponential relationship to my swelling belly. What began as "The Pinhead" became our Meishka.

Then that day that threatened to exist in anticipation forever arrived--and arrived early, along with our darling Zoë. And with her the feeling grew some more.

Now four months of being a family of three feels at once like a lifetime (what was life like without her?) and a flash (where did that newborn go?).

So for me, 26 meant motherhood. And it's made this 27th birthday the first one in which I thanked my mom for having me and halfway understood what doing so may have meant for her.