I was 32 years old, married ten years, with two kids, ages six and three. I thought my heart was full.
The three-year-old was CRAZY.
Like many moms, I could and did say, “My hands are full and so is my heart.”
I was a stay-at-home mom, dealing with a kindergartener and a preschooler who, because of developmental delays, was more like a toddler. I was a wife, to a hard-working husband who did not arrive home from work until SEVEN STINKING O’CLOCK.
The days were lovely, but long.
My hands were full. SO full. Your sister’s strong personality and delays left me physically spent most days. Sometimes, just getting her dressed left me sweating. True story.
Anyway. My hands were full.
I thought my heart was, too.
But then.
A trip with your dad for our tenth anniversary. A couple of days away.
We came back with a baby on board. You.
But I didn’t know. I thought my heart was full. I thought we were “done.”
It was April, and as the weather turned warm we packed up all the baby things, finally. We gave away the bedding set, the crib, the pack-n-play, the swing, and even your brother’s ginormous train table with ALL.THOSE. EXPENSIVE. WOODEN. THOMAS. TRAINS.
The DAY AFTER (literally, kid, the DAY AFTER) we gave away the train table I felt sort of funny. I had some symptoms I’d only had twice before…
I ran to the spare bathroom where I was pretty sure the lone remainder of a pregnancy test two-pack was hidden in the back of a cabinet.
