A few days before Herr Meow was born last year, the Monsieur and I would go to the movies a lot. And therefore, we saw A LOT of previews for “Rent.”
And although we loved to make fun of the cheesiness and of the sadness and of the melodrama with which the preview was assembled –because that’s jsut the kind of black-hearted people we are, that we’d make fun of poor people and struggling artists– there was always an unspoken moment during the obligatory blaring of “Seasons of Love” where both of us were moved. Or at least I was. And I still am– now more than ever.
My baby hadn’t been born yet, a year ago: he made his arrival at 7:38 pm. I think that perhaps around this time I was actively in labor, having realized that the really bad indigestion was not indigestion. How I could have been so dumb still is a source of much laughter to this day. If, for some reason, you would like to know what happened on that day, you can always click here.
But right now, after a long day’s worth of flying and exploring and making friends and getting a birthday wish announced over the PA system on the second leg of our flight– and after smiling sweetly to those who thought we’d be “those parents” and he’d be “that baby” over and over– my baby sleeps sweetly away and I simply cannot fathom how we got here from one year ago.
One whole year.
It seems like a dream within a dream: a vague, floating, alternate reality where he was inside of me and then he wasn’t. A place in time where I was carrying an idea that weighed almost seven pounds and which suddenly materialized into the smiling, walking, laughing, observant boy that he is today.
And yet, it’s been one year.
Happy birthday to you, my sweet love.