Eventually there comes a day when everything finally fits. All of the toys fit neatly in the closet. The bulky baby equipment has been given away and the basement is a neat stack of boxes again. The kids fit into an easy schedule that includes nights of uninterrupted sleep. We manage to fit time in for friends again, and books, and begin to become aware again of what is happening in the world. My jeans fit.
Which is why it is so ironic that on the day that my car is packed with the last remaining pieces of baby . . . the monitor, a walker, bumper pads . . . that just before leaving to donate my final remnant from the baby era, the subtle but not yet stated assumption being that we won't need them anymore, I would discover that I am pregnant.
I suppose in the way that a woman's intuition just knows things before she really knows, I knew. My body must have known, which is why it shifted into a sudden urge to clear out, eliminate, make room. I thought that it was a process of simplifying, making everything fit, when really it was an impulse to make more room; we are having another baby.
I look around, and everything shouts impossible! Our closets, our finances, our schedule, my jeans. There is no more room. Everything just fits.
Is there enough love in me to give another child? I love already more than I am capable, so that I think my heart will explode with love.
There will be room. A woman's body stretches to illogical, nearly unbearable proportions, making room for life. The loaves will multiply. Our table will expand; we'll buy another chair. Like the widow's jug, bottomless love.