One morning I woke up with a term resonating in my head, and I knew it had persisted through the night's dream state: tidal estuary.
A good friend of mine got me thinking about the significance of this image and suggested that I write about it.
You, dear Baby, are quite literally in an in-between state right now: between two worlds. You are not quite a person (in the living and breathing in the world sense) and yet you are not exactly a part of my body either.
You and I together exist in this state of limbo—not exactly one person, not exactly two—as you grow each day to become ready to make your appearance in our lives.
You also are in-between in a less physical sense. You have one foot firmly planted in the spiritual realm where you originated, and yet the two tiny feet attached to your body are inhabiting my human form, kicking and flexing, readying yourself to be born into this earthly space.
Giving birth (and being born, I assume, though I do not remember my own birth) is a similar kind of limbo state: one person becoming two, an amazingly powerful, transcendent experience that defines parent and child alike. We will meet and look into each others eyes for the first time, but I will know your movements, your smell will intoxicate me, and you will recognize the sound of my voice; my body will continue to be your familiar place, your natural habitat.
I am well aware that our connection and relationship is as uncomplicated now as it's likely to ever be. I am very much looking forward to meeting and getting to know you, and also to being one of your guides through the early years of your life. But I am relishing in this moment with you here in my belly: feeling your kicks, watching my body grow and change, sensing the pressure of you shifting position. I know there's so much I don't yet know about you, and that you will teach me so much about life and about myself, just as Daniel has already.
Until we meet (again).