Every night, the four of us latch onto the u-shaped pregnancy pillow: one from the middle; one from inside me; one with his head nuzzled into my neck; and one curled up into a furry ball between my stomach and the pillow – defeating the pillow’s whole purpose; but the cat insists: he is and will always be the first baby.
A week later, and I still can’t sit in chairs. They staff more people
at hospitals on full moons and during storms and she tells the
41-week pregnant woman to go to the Italian restaurant next to
King Soopers. “Point to your belly and they will know” – the
eggplant parmesan that sends a city into labor.
I look up one day when walking out of the store and I see it
there in the strip mall: large white letters above a green and
white canopy, “IL PASTAIO.” I laugh and think about how we
should go there for dinner before remembering how
superstitious I am: We will not be stepping foot into that
restaurant until it’s time for me to eat the eggplant parm.
Soon enough, the four of us have completed another day’s tasks: one grading never-ending essays; one forming brain cells; one computing water leaks; and one squeaking at squirrels. We migrate our drowsiness from the couch to the bed, briefly awake enough to contemplate what’s next before latching back onto the pillow. The soft cushion guides us toward a future we will never fully understand until it’s here, so we hold tight and float forward.
