Yesterday, I felt very well. Reed and I played wildly, and I hung glow-in-the-dark stars above his crib, the stars Adam and I both had in our rooms as kids and took such delight in. I organized his bookshelf, and Reed unorganized it behind me, and I looked around and saw that I wasn’t sitting in a baby’s nursery anymore. I was sitting in a little boys room.
As fast as they came, the cravings have faded, and this pregnancy feels much less wild, though no more predictable. Some days I am entirely well, sometimes I’m as sick as a dog. I suppose, though, that if one must have morning sickness, this is a fine time to do it: when winter food has lost its appeal, anyway, and the dangerous cold keeps one indoors. I am beginning to itch for spring. I want boundless energy and short sleeves and fingers in the dirt. I want to eat fresh spring lettuce, dew-wet and chilled from the night, mounds of lettuce dressed in mustard, vinegar, and cream. I want to sunbathe my pregnant belly by the river on one of those days that only feels warm because it’s April, and in April 65 degrees is warm enough for sunbathing. I want to smell dandelion in the air.