Honesty

I lied.

I'm not reading Gifts or Roadmap to Holland. I've skimmed one and started the other, and they're in a stack on my nightstand along with Babies with Down Syndrome and Expecting Adam and Your Baby's First Year Week by Week. But I'm not reading any of those, either.

I'm reading David Sedaris.

I've even read this one before, and I had also read the 1,000-page novel about a Victorian-era prostitute that I just finished before, but when I'm in my snuggly bed before sleep overwhelms me, with Mirabel softly snoring and gently sighing in her bassinet, I want the words I'm reading to lift me away, to make me laugh... to let me escape.

Wait, is that right? Is that what I'm trying to do -- escape? Nah. Well, maybe. But I'm not saying Oh my life is so horrible, just let me escape! Heavens, no! I actually think my life is uniquely wonderful right now, full of opportunities and hope and baby's breath. Mmm, my baby has baby's breath and it is so yummy. She's a baby. I am relishing her baby-ness and smelling her baby skin and taking huge bites out of her fat baby thighs.

The other books are there, in a stack, waiting patiently, saying, "We're here if you need us. Mirabel has been welcomed in to a world where you will read and receive all the support and encouragement she needs. Crack us open if you need a dose of hope and reassurance. We're here. We'll wait."

Thank you, books.

And while we're on the subject of honesty, let me throw out some props to my strong, stoic, supportive husband and baby-daddy, John. John loves to talk things out. I'm serious! He's all, Let's get to the root of this, let's talk it out. He listens, and he apologizes (if he needs to). Lord help me, sometimes I think this man is too good. So when Mirabel came around I looked to him for the raw honesty I would need. And I saw him struggle on that first day, and I saw him come as close to tears as I ever have in 8 years. "I just want to be a good father for her," he said. And then he spoke some of the most beautifully honest words ever:

"I think Mirabel is here to teach us to slow down."

True that. Not that we have been able to slow down as much as we'd like, but Mirabel doesn't seem to mind. She's patient, too. {Case in point: We were all in the car the other day and I turned to Luciya to ask how Mirabel was in the back seat. Luciya's reply? "She's just chillin'."}

But Honest John did come to me, worry in his brow, and thoughts in his brain. Because whether we immerse ourselves in the literature or not, Mirabel's diagnosis is perched in every nook and cranny of our lives. And Honest John apologized before he spoke, but he did share The Thought: "You never want your children to die before you do... but part of me hopes that Mirabel does live a long life but does go before us, so that we don't have to worry about her."

And there you have it: shocking, simple, heartbreaking, and ultimately difficult to even express out loud. And we went and marveled at our baby in all her baby glory, and decided to slow down and enjoy every minute we do have.

And then I showered Mirabel with all the blessings I could muster, and I fluffed my pillows and settled in and read some silly stories about the silly South Carolina childhoods of David and his siblings, and I went to sleep.