Sage is 11 months old tomorrow.
I've been spending time in our dining room, looking out our sliding doors into the backyard.
Last year at this time, I'd often find myself in this spot, alone and awake during one of my bathroom trips. Soft snow. Quiet trees. Stars shining. I'd note the moon and its shape, wondering about birthing during a full moon. I'd look at the hospital in the distance, wondering if I'd birth there - or if I'd birth in this very spot of my home, or somewhere in between.
I wondered about labouring and birthing and what surprises they might bring. What it was like to be the one in labour, rather than supporting my wife in labour.
I wondered about the baby I was carrying. What her name would be. How I could love her as much as her sister. How she would fit. What life would look like with her in it.
I wondered about breastfeeding and what challenge might arise. What joys I might find.
I wondered about my wife and how she would find this birth. How she would experience the first days and weeks as mother to our daughter in a different way than our first, whom she had carried and birthed and breastfed.
Lately I've been looking back on those quiet times of wonder.
