blueberry pancakes in through the looking glass.

This morning I read on the couch as David made french toast, singing a lively tune to “Oseh Shalom.” The house smelled of butter and eggs and cardamon and I found myself with tears in my eyes.

When we were children, David and I would tell each other stories of our future together, of the life we would share and especially of blueberry pancakes on lazy weekend mornings. The joke we share now is that not once in our nearly 15 years together have I actually made him blueberry pancakes, but the joy and contentment of this morning seems wondrously parallel to the longing we put word to then.

On Friday, I again couldn’t look as the ultrasound technician put the wand to my stomach. But within seconds I heard David’s cry of excitement, his body suddenly next to mine. I took my hand from my eyes and saw our baby, the curves of little lips and nose, and heard the heartbeat. And I cried with relief.