Funny thing about pregnancies: At the end of the whole ordeal, the crazy eating schedules, the shifting emotions, the preparations and the planning the building building building…

You get to go home with a baby.

Like, that’s the end game. You leave the hospital with a baby. And, like, they let you.

They let you keep it.

You get to keep the baby.

We’re being discharged tomorrow. We’re leaving the safety of the hospital for the open world, the treacherous landscape called Earth, where people will want to hurt my babies, without even knowing their going to.

Bullets flying in every direction and some of them, words to hurt, pain of the heart, will hit my boys. There’s a quote from the show “Firefly” that goes:

Everybody dies, Tracey. Someone’s carryin’ a bullet for you right now, doesn’t even know it. The trick is, die of old age before it finds you.

I guess it’s my job to be the hospital from now on. To keep them safe from that bullet headed their way for as long as possible.


I am very tired.

Thanks for reading,

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