I have a twenty month old son. He’s the only reason in 20 months that I wake up early.
Twenty-three months ago, I wake up early nearly every day starving. Craving a honey crisp apple, I quickly quarter it and dip generously into the peanut butter jar propped on my enormous and growing belly.
On June 22nd, 2014, I wake up early bewildered by my first contractions. It’s five days past my due date. I wake my husband. “I think it’s happening.”
In the early morning, after giving birth, I lie exhausted in the hospital bed. The full moon outside the window hovers in the brilliant cityscape. Next to me, swaddled in a blanket, my son’s eyes are open.
It’s early, nearly two years later, and the first day of March. The sky is a wintry black. My son has not stirred yet. I have just a few moments to do what I woke up to do. I start writing.