Today, we were told to write about something political.

Pitter-patter is not at all political. Unaware of congress, and the president, too, it might be better off, for I’d hate it to think its just a bunch of cells, lumped together haphazard.

I remember exactly the day and the moment of each of my three.

It was the last Sunday in May, the first time James danced. I sat near a pond off the road called Love Hollow, twirling grass in my hand as his dad’s arm drew back with his rod, attached to the string, swaying peacefully behind him and then into the water. I sighed in surprise and sat there a while, pressing my hand on his body and mine. The kick, like him, strong and intense like a hammer, seldom stopped moving or talking to me.

Sweet baby Josie, danced awfully early. I folded that shirt then dropped it at once, and put back my hand to where it belonged, right onto my belly and close to her feet, kicking and jumping. She’s never stopped tapping since 8 weeks gestation, reminding me then, just like she does now, to quit all that laundry, and play with her, instead.

Rita Therese was 9 weeks along. I laid on the chair and its soft navy back, its cushion absorbing my day’s exhaustion. What a surprise, those feet came to be, reminding of joy, and sacrifice, too. Her kicks the first, that led me to tears, for her soft gentle rhythms weren’t the first event unexpected. Rita, my child, is not a mistake, but a gift sent from heaven, unforeseen and received.

Pitter-patter cannot vote, or chose at all, which seems not fair, to me, its mother. It cannot march or stand outside the courts with a sign or a hanger. It only pushes and twists and rolls. It taps quite strong before it naps. Hiccups come at the same time each day. Its legs stretch up to my ribs, and like to dance at bedtime. I cannot will it, nor make it stop, just choose whether to enjoy and exactly how much.

Choice is the word parading around, but I find it confusing, because choose I did, that night in my bed.

Life is simple; it begins and it grows, so long as its let, and loved just for being.