A few nights ago, I asked Jacob to put his hand on my stomach and tell the little one -- if he or she is in there at all -- to stay put.
(It's implantation time. I know this because after six months of "practicing" for pregnancy, I know just about everything there is to know about the process of baby-making, except, apparently, how to successfully make one.)
I breathed in and out a few times, watching his hand rise with my breath.
And I saw how badly he wants this, which is to say, as badly as I do.
The ups and downs of trying have been rough on me, forcing all manners of emotional issues surrounding my body, control and surrender to the surface. And, at times, that work got lonely.
The last few months have been an exercise for me in letting go, but in doing that, I think I stopped letting Jacob in on the process and I stopped allowing myself to dream.
And so the other night, as we both gave into the small indulgence that was actually acknowledging what we were both longing for, I was reminded not only how good hope can feel, but how good it can feel when it's shared.
In that small moment, I got a glimpse again of what we're working toward: A tiny person, made of a bit of him, a bit of me, a lot of hope and little breath.