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Aidan was due 12 years ago today. Ten days later, she finally appeared as a wizened, scrawny, thrill-seeking, wide-eyed newborn.

The nurses reported they had to set the swing on the fastest setting to keep her happy. Those were the days when babies lounged around nursery windows and were brought to mothers for chow time. Rooming-in was weird. The philosophy was to give mothers as much rest and quiet as possible, and I sorta appreciate that, but whatever. Digress. The practice didn’t stop me from bonding or establishing breastfeeding, but whatever. Digress.

I guarantee I was walking 12 years ago at this very moment. If you are reading this between June 28, 2009 and July 7, 2009, look at your clock and let your mind go back 12 years. There was a woman in a giant denim jumper maternity dress and white Keds with doofy bobby socks walking at that very moment. I promise. In the final days of my first pregnancy, I walked and walked. It’s all I did.

We drove to downtown Grand Junction to walk, to the park to walk, to my parent’s neighborhood to walk, to the mall to walk.
On the way to walk her out, this song played on the radio: How Bizarre

It became Aidan’s song because we couldn’t go anywhere without hearing it. It’s forever linked with feeling her kick and roll and false labor contractions. It’s paired with walking the street in front of our apartment at night, looking up to the stars, and asking God if our baby could be born that night, that very night, please? No?

Weep.

We still sing it to her when she’s complaining about loading the dishwasher or being cantankerous. She blushes and claims she hates that song, stop it!

We do, but I still hear it in my head.