The few times every year when I am so lucky to have my mom in town, she often offers to watch my daughter one or two mornings while I escape to Starbucks with a good book. Yesterday was one of those mornings. And it was so nice to have some time to myself. I ordered the largest coffee I could, not caring for once about the overload of caffeine in it, and escaped into another world as I read quietly while sitting in my favorite chair.
But there is a funny thing that often happens on these mornings: I feel the slow and steady rise of hope in my chest. Is it because an hour alone makes me feel so relaxed that my guard is down? Is because I am energized by the caffeine I avoid on every other day? I can’t surely say, but when I am blinded by this hope, there is this crazy thing I do: after I’m done reading and sipping, I will wander down to the Target that is attached to the mall with the Starbucks I have been sitting in, and I will browse the baby section. I will finger the soft fabric of the little fleece shirts and matching pants that can be found so often at this time of year. I will hold the tiny outfit with the little rhino and the words “Tough Guy” close to my heart. I will imagine my baby wearing something so precious, one day. And I will consider, seriously consider, if I should buy the onesie with “I Love Mom” on it in Newborn size. I don’t. I do not yet have the balls or heart to make such a purchase, but there is a moment when I think I might. And even when I just can’t bring myself to do it, I will hope, and briefly believe, that some day I will. I will have a reason to make that purchase.
It is on these mornings that I hold onto the thought that I have been here before, and I can do it again. I. Can. Do. It. I only wish that this sort of courageous hope didn’t leave the moment I walked out the doors of the mall, into the sunlight and the reality of my life.