[life] grief and joy: the wings of breath

I read a number of other's writer's blogs - partly just to experience their words, partly to hear about what writing experiences they choose to share, and partly, I suppose, to feel like part of a community of writers.

One of the writers is Erin Noteboom, who is a poet that I admire greatly. Her sister died this year, and since then her journal has been a lot more sporadic. Just before the news of her sister, she revealed that she was pregnant. Today she posted about how she was unable to attend a memorial day of gardening for her sister, because she was at nine months and due to pop anytime, according to her midwife.

Although I was aware of the amount of time it had been since her last substantial update, and also aware that time does not stop for other people if I am not aware of what's happening to them, it still shocked me a little. Nine months seems like a lot of time from the outside, I suppose, when babies are still hypothetical and all. Recently my husband said to me that he feels ready for kids. Not that he wants to yet, necessarily, but that he feels emotionally ready to be a father. That statement from him has brought all my nebulous baby thoughts into sharp focus.

I feel the same. I have some things I want to do first - finish the novel, find an agent, fix up our house - but given those things, I can't think of anything else that I'd be waiting for. I'm ready too, emotionally, physically, spiritually. It's only a couple years away at this point, I think.

A book and a baby by thirty? Sounds about perfect to me.