Boom Boom Boom

"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold." 
— Zelda Fitzgerald

Some people believe life starts at conception. Some believe when a baby can survive outside the womb. And some don't believe until the baby is held up to cry with that first gasp of air. 

But I can tell you the moment I became a mother, and it's none of those.

After long weeks of  morning sickness only being broken by migraines, pregnancy fades. You don't feel like you are home to a growing baby. You feel sick and exhausted, and that's all that seems real.

One day, at the doctor's, you're told they probably won't be able to find a heartbeat this early, but they'd like to try just in case. They ooze cold gel onto your belly and move the wand around in slow, deliberate motions. You hear little whooshes that make you sure there is no baby, but whales calling to each other.

And then? And then the wand rolls over a perfect spot, and you hear the booms. The tiny, pattering booms of the one you haven't quite believed was there until this moment. And the doctor tells you it's strong and you beam. The room floats away and the only thing left is that beautiful sound.

That's the moment your own heart stops. And that's when, if only for a a few precious seconds, you forget the rest of the world. That's your baby. That's the heart you'll know in a just a handful of months. That's the heart you love more than your own already.