Desperately Seeking New Hampshire

Desperately Seeking New Hampshire

a blog post about, well, not what you think (or maybe it is)

I have a box in my closet. No, this is not a proverbial skeleton or other nonsense. It’s a literal box, attached to so much right now.

I liken it to my wedding dress. How I use to try it on nearly every day after it was purchased. I covet this box, or rather, its contents.

It rests on the top shelf. I carry it down in embraced fingertips (I often wonder what it would be like to be of average or extraordinary height… everything is always fingertips away for me- story of my life, really). O, how I would sit with the box waiting, wanting, contemplating to slice the adhesive peel that held it together, but I didn’t.

Because

somewhere in my head an idea has taken root. If the box was to be open, floodgates would become undone and a lot of grief would ensue. Frankly, Pandora has nothing on me.

It’s bad juju, mojo, luck- whatever. Even writing this post has been delayed by this psyche embeddedment (no, it's not a word but oh well- I plead jabberwocky insanity), and falls under this “bad” category.

But at twelve weeks. I can no longer restrain myself.

My size eight jeans can no longer restrain me.

Thank you to those who have been in on it from the beginning,

to those who have journeyed this road before me, to those who have helped me without knowing,

to a kind lab worker who can find my small veins with ease every time,

to my optimistic husband—a companion to converse with about sad things on a long road,

and to my son who has kept me busy and reassured.

To those I have deceived, flat-out lied to, withheld details from—

I am sorry, but I knew you would understand. : )

PS Be assured that "New Hampshire" is not the baby's name. It just shares the same initials as the state.