Eva Wren


How many cups of coffee can this new mama drink while the baby naps? So far this morning it’s three. We are gently rocking the morning away on our three season porch wrapped in flannel blankets, baby snoring softly and occasionally fussing when the pacifier slides from her sleepy mouth. We have the buzz of end-of-summer insects, birds chirping, and distant train rumbles as white noise to help baby sleep. It’s cool and humid with a stillness that comes after the rain, and it reminds me of early morning coffee at the cottage, our ramshackle family gathering place in Scranton, PA. Our lawn is patchy and burnt from summer’s lack of rain and the shallow roots of our Norway Maple make the ground beneath it uneven and mossy, just like the cottage. My house is my cottage. My cozy shack. My daughter will grow up not knowing the cottage itself. I’ll tell her about it, show her pictures, stop during walks to say, “smell the way the air is now… That’s how it smelled up the mountain.” She’ll get to know the place I went to during labor and delivery when I was out of my body and too tired to push. We would go up to recharge and see family, and how appropriate that my husband while coaching me through contractions said “go to the cottage, it’s time to meet our daughter”. It’s only been 24 days, and at the same time it feels as if I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. Her face is my face, her fusses, tantrums and snores are my soundtrack, her weight in my arms is what I’ve waited all this time for. She’s my baby. My world. My Eva Wren.


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