I write my first blog post from an apartment high up in a jungle of similar apartments, looking out across glass and stone and bare trees, and feeling like the only fertile thing for miles. I work from home, and now, in the clutches of this bitter Midwestern freeze, post-Snowpocalypse 2011, I find myself venturing out less and less. I'm very aware of how lucky I am to have this option. My sweet boyfriend brings home all the hummus and pickles and cookies a pregnant cave dweller could ever need. And as the only pregnant person in my circle, my friends allow me to summon them, like a bulbous vampiric princess, to join me in my lair for games and tea. I work online, and have had unusually few networking events to attend in recent days. Now that I think about it, I probably haven't stepped outside, other than onto our little balcony, in almost a week.
I've slowly become a contented urban mole, well fed and expanding and warm and loved...and quite cut off from the world. My meditation center is way up in the north of the city, and even in the summer I rarely make it up there. I'm 17 weeks pregnant and am going to be a first time mom. Spring will come, and I will step outside again, considerably larger than the last time I wore a sundress. This year I will have a baby. This summer will mark my child's birth, and my rebirth as an urban mother, a nursing meditator, a poopy diaper changer, a 2 a.m. tear wiper. From my snowbound cave, my concrete incubator, I am joyfully waiting for so much blossoming to begin.
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