When you are pregnant, you do this thing where you calculate how old your baby will be at certain points in the year.

“Our baby will be two and a half months old at Christmas.”

“On Mother’s Day I will have a seven month old”

I remember vividly, being fat and round, rubbing my belly and thinking that in the spring our baby would be old enough to lie on a blanket in the soft sun, and it was an image that kept reoccurring in my thoughts throughout my pregnancy, and kept me going in those first few rainy months of Olive’s life.

I hadn’t thought about it for a while, until today, as I sat outside with my chubby six month old, feeling the soft sun and light breeze and then I realized that here we were, in this space I’d imagined so many times, and it was every bit as great as I thought it would be.

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