Stepping out of the hot shower,
the bathroom filled with steam,
the large mirror hanging on the wall now foggy.
And yet, 
what is that in the smudgy fogged up mirror?
Is that a hand print?
At the top left hand corner?
How did it get there?
Whose hand print is it?
It appears to be a small hand print, 
about the same size as my
4 year old daughter’s hand.
But how did it get way up there?
She must have climbed.
From floor, to stool, to countertop.
 
I feel myself holding my breath as I 
imagine my 4-year-old climbing and scaling
the arena of our bathroom.
I take a deep breath and exhale,
and find myself giggling inside.
In the moment, I feel proud – she’s
not usually so bold and daring.
 
I think about how fast she is growing,
and how in the years to come, 
far from now,
this will only be a fond memory, and
I never want to wipe clean the mirror.
I always want to remember my daughter,
the spontaneity of life,
and the miracle of a life well-lived.

Another rainy Monday morning.
I don't know when,
but the squirrels have
successfully tackled the
bird feeder to the ground
from its dangling hook
on the tree branch.
On this first day of March
the nudges of spring time begin.
The muddy season, the rainy season,
the dry season -- dependent on where you are.
Here, the daffodils soon to be pushing their way up,
sharing their bright, yellow splendor.
Daffodils and my first born daughter, Eleanor,
go hand-in-hand.
She was born in this season of the nudges of spring.
And even though she lived a short life of two weeks,
she was like the daffodils --
with a strength and courage to stay steadfast
through pregnancy
and ride and push through labor and delivery
even though many of her own kind
do not make it that far.
Her own kind being that of Trisomy 18 -
a rare, less than 1% chance of chromosomal abnormalities,
not genetic - there is no scientific explanation.
It just is.

Daffodils not only bring their bright splendor and promise of spring,
but also a swelling in my heart, in my chest,
that is full of joy and love,
and equally grief and loss.
A weighted fullness
that is difficult to put into words.
The nudges of spring enter me and I enter them.
Eleanor and the daffodils walk hand-in-hand.

​And I join hand-in-hand with Eleanor,
​with the daffodils,
and with spring,
as we all nudge to emerge.

Written by Janet Wepner. March 2021 (in Maya Stein's writing group)

Sometimes,
I am the "mommy cart horse."

There are tiny claw marks
on my breast, happening
while breastfeeding my 7 month old baby.

In a morning stupor of "mommy brain"
and sleep deprivation, I almost
gave the baby a glass of water
meant for my older daughter.
​
On most days,
it's not uncommon to find me
pouring coffee from a french press
and squeezing every last drop
into a mug for myself.