I’ve read about the vivid dreams during pregnancy. The anxiety, the worry. In my dreams are tiny pink preterm babies all on top of my belly with hospital blankets, shivering. My new prayers are to have have this baby at full term, healthy and strong, a smooth labor.
Omar twists and turns in my belly. Soft taps to remind me that he is there. I’ve seen every part of him. His brain, his lips, his arms, his feet. My favorite, his heart. Four chambers beating. Strong. 158 heartbeats per minute. This is how fast he talks to God.
I saw a group of little league boys collecting money for their team. They weren’t really into it. In their uniform they held a bucket not wanting to ask the people that walked by. I smiled at them thinking maybe Omar would want to wear a uniform like them. Or maybe he will run like the high school boys in Joaquin Miller Park, five or six of them shirtless with little sweat. And when I see little boys do what traditional little boys do I know that Omar might not want any of those things. He might want to stay at home to read science fiction and garden with his papi.
I asked my husband if Omar gets bored in my belly. He says, no, I imagine him doing dhiker when he is awake.
158 heartbeats per minute. Continuous. Little time for a break.
Before I got married, before I met Adam my mami gave me the sheets she had on her bed after I was born. The ones I slept on with my parents. I folded them last night and thought about how I want my baby to feel it’s softness and mine. Outside of the womb, in this world, always protected. Mami gave the bowl I ate from and el azabache to ward off the evil eye. I am saving it for Omar, inshaAllah, with the cloth diapers his papi and big sister used.