Five Years Ago

Five years ago from right about now, meaning this very minute, I went into labor with Lily. I was sitting with Nicole on the floor in our old apartment on the second floor, which was filled with unpacked boxes. The bed was not made; the mattress and boxspring weren't on the frame. All of a sudden I felt a little funny. I wasn't in pain, exactly; something just felt different. And then the feeling went away. A little while later, it came back. "Nicole?" I said.

About sixteen hours later she was half-carrying me down the stairs because I could barely walk, and the elevator wouldn't come. Late that evening, Lily was born. When I think about this now--the fact that I left home without a baby, just me, and returned five days later forever the mother of Lily--it is hard, impossible, to fathom.

We talk about becoming a parent like this: as a transformation, a sudden entry into an unknown universe. The gist of it is that it is impossible to understand something so vast and complex before it becomes a reality. But tonight I found myself thinking: Life is like this. I really have no idea what could happen tomorrow, and try as I might to foresee the scenarios, I cannot know what will happen or how I will face it when it does. I am thinking now that becoming a parent is really just a metaphor for life. We step out into an abyss, close our eyes in anticipation, and are.