I don’t know how to describe a flower except to tell you things like the petals are soft, the pollen is a dust that looks harmless until it stains your hand, and the stem is alive until you pull it. These are all true, but still, if you’d never seen a flower before–had nothing to compare it to–my description would fall short. And when you finally get to see one, smell one, walk through a field set afire by a thousand of them, you’d say, “Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know about THIS…”
That’s how I feel about this journey I’m on with Charlee. And I know, I know. We’ve been telling each other about motherhood for well, forever. Our mothers were told by their mothers who were told by their own. But somehow when it’s your story, it’s new and all the descriptions fall a little short of the reality. Which is the best kind of here and now, I think; when you wake to a life that is more vibrant than your dreams. That is harder and better, more visceral and bleeding-heart-God-I-love-you-so than anything that ever accompanied your sleep.