In carrying a child in my womb, I think I myself am, in a beautifully ironic way, slowly becoming a child again.
Indeed, this past Christmas was truly magical, as if I were again a small girl entranced by the lights, the tree, the smell and feeling in the air. The thrill of new life—of Jesus Christ, of this little one, of my sister’s sweet Clara, of beginning again—deeply infected me. I haven’t laughed so much and with such gusto in far too long. Nor have I, admittedly, nibbled so much chocolate since I was a rail-thin girl. Enfolded in the warmth of my beloved family’s love and joy and peace, I could not help but loosen up, let go, and live a little. I thoroughly enjoyed the good food provided by my parents’ generosity—but more than this, I soaked up the camaraderie we shared during every meal, every board game. When we bundled up and set out into the brittle cold on Christmas Eve to stomp through the treed lanes with a flickering lantern, gusting out carols between every labored breath, I know we all felt our hearts swell in this shared adventure. Even when we all found ourselves dashing for the toilet on Christmas Day, struck by an unforeseen bug, we bonded—because a family that shares together, stays together.
And I know that, when this little one finally emerges, life will become that much more magical as I begin to see the world through my child’s innocent eyes. Already, my transformation has begun, for my child and I share much even now.