A perpetual calendar is a method of recorded time that can tell you the date, month, year, and day of the week often for hundreds of years, depending on how it was designed. From thick blue cardstock and three dials, you can express almost any date. Hidden underneath are endless permutations, tables of data giving you the power to slide time backwards and forwards.
Before her, time was a straight line, with parenthood was the final, unexplored frontier.
I took the pregnancy test in my grandmother’s bathroom and, after seeing it was positive, hid it at the bottom of her trash can. I didn’t know how to feel, because I’d never been to this part of the map.
Our relationship began with a question mark, like holding hands with a stranger. You pick clothes and toys for a baby, not knowing who she is. You pick the parts of yourself you wish she’ll carry with her, not knowing how she’ll surprise you.
Being her mother brought me into equilibrium, the way a leap day aligns our calendar with the revolutions of the sun. I never dreamed about her, never wondered about a child, simply realized I had too many hours in my day and too much desire to nurture. I’d done everything in my life with the maximum amount of forethought and suddenly, I did something without much thinking.
Everything I did became the “last” in some way - the last trip, the last full night of sleep. Pregnancy doesn’t allow you to forget what’s about to happen, you’re never truly alone the way you were before. You exist together, from that moment on.
This month, she turns seven. The story of her birth recedes in my mind more every year, replaced by memories of watching her read her first chapter book, laugh at my jokes, choose her own clothes. Hoping the world is kind to her and, in turn, that she grows up to be unforgettable.