thankful.

Somewhere between picking through the bottom of a leftover bag of Halloween candy hoping for some chocolate, and carrying a platter of untouched cranberry sauce to the sink, there’s supposed to be a moment or two of actual thankfulness. I’ve always believed that. Often it skips by me, and my only thought of “thanksgiving” happens when I bow my head over a heap of mashed potatoes. In truth, I am more aware of my gratitude for my dinner than I am for anything else. Which is not entirely awful I suppose.

But this year, as I sit curled up on the sofa, awaiting my mom’s arrival in Nashville with her time-honored stuffing recipe and gladness in my heart that there will be someone here who knows how to properly cook a turkey, I look down and see the large bump protruding where my stomach used to be. And I am thankful.

I think back to May 19th, waking up in Siena, Italy in our cozy room with its view of church bells and a grove of cone-shaped trees. We discovered we were pregnant right before breakfast, and sat on the balcony just staring at each other with smiles behind our eyes as we nibbled on homemade croissants prepared by the hotel owner. He was a man who spoke choppy English, seemed to drink a lot, and played the violin at every time of night for anyone passing through the hallway. By morning he was jovial and sober, and extremely proud of his breakfast offerings.

He could have served us sun-baked shoe leather with marmalade jam for all we really noticed what we were eating. We sat in a swimmy daze of both disbelief and elation, pondering the future between sips of cappuccino. After breakfast, we walked to the pharmacy and bought two more Italian pregnancy tests, just to be triple-y sure.

Now it’s six months later and here we are. There’s a nursery to put together. Tiny socks and shirts must be folded in preparation. We have a name chosen and a sudden enthusiasm about diaper changes and sleepless nights. Time has galloped along and it’s amazing to realize how very close we are to holding a little person in our arms, one who might have Jeremy’s long eyelashes or my mouth in miniature.

And we know that we are blessed.