So much hope. So much anticipation. Excitement with no where to go. For almost nine months.
Of course we don't have a full nine months. Maybe eight, but most likely seven, unless it is the first time, and the parent- to-be can't hold on to the kite that keeps pulling away because of the gusts of anxiousness.
For this newest little person, we only have four more months until we meet her.
She will be our second granddaughter. It's been nine years since we've imagined another little girl in our lives. Over the years, the pink and frilly have been passed over by trucks, camoflauge and all shades of blue.
While thinking of this little girl, I think about a recent writing prompt I gave to students. "Rose, bud, and thorn. I want you to write about each one."
In everyone's life, there will always be a rose, a bud and a thorn. The rose is happiness, the bud,--potential, and the thorn is, what else?--the reality. The literature I am currently reading with two different classes, the nonfiction story of Le Chambon, and the Pulitzer prize winner "All The Light We Cannot See," are both about finding light amidst darkness.
This rose in our life: expecting this new baby girl; the bud in our life: the excitement sure to come in four months, is accompanied by a hopefully, unnecessary worry--the thorn.
Her doctor tells her not to worry, and we really don't, but as we read about zika, follow its outbreak, hear of its devastating effect on the unborn, we worry. The thorn among our rose and our bud. Her development coincides with our time in Mexico, and if we had known...
It makes me wonder if the ever present thorn is mostly the worry we bring upon ourselves. I've started to worry about Mom and for no good reason; she's healthy, strong, independent and happy, yet I worry it won't last. In part this is true, because she is aging, but it's not worthy of worry.
Worry can consume us. It keeps people from adventure, relationships, even getting in the car and going to the grocery store. It's like a fire--when fed with fuel, it flames.
The important thing I must remember: thorns are removable. If grasped at the bottom, almost at what feels like a root, they break off easily.
Rose, bud, thorn. For now I must focus on the bud and the rose. Forever, I must focus on the beauty of the bud and the rose.