Jennifer Berney’s memoir of her extended, arduous, and deeply thoughtful path to motherhood swells with the oceanic saudade of a woman who came of age already missing the baby she’d not yet had, and missing herself as the mother she’d not yet become.
It’s like the act of writing, where I have kept my sourdough starter alive by continuing to feed it, and I have practiced the art of baking over and over again, knowing that not every loaf will leave my home, that some of them may even go in the garbage or become croutons. It is only because I continue that I succeed.
I slide over and place my ear onto his chest, hear life rushing from one chamber to the next. The strength and the sound of it startles me. How can I not hear it all the time? Across the room, across the house, even? How do I forget?