Movement at the station

It was last night, my restless pumpkin, that I felt your touch for the first time.

Uneventful weeks of laying my hands on your mother's belly had left me wondering if I would ever get the chance to feel you, I had decided, I think, that you were hiding from me.

That one small nudge from you, which felt something like a foot, but could easily have been an elbow, a knee, a hand or a headbutt, set off some kind of a seismic disturbance in my emotions that it is difficult for me to accurately get down here.

I'll give it a shot.

For my entire life to date, through the years of my mis-spent youth (tales of which will be heavily censored for the time being), I never did anything that could not be undone, repaired, paid off or forgotten. All of the mistakes that I made (and there were many), were mistakes that affected only me and the people around me. My responsibility in the first 30 years of my life was limited only to my own survival, and although I tested that responsibility to the edge of the envelope, I made it through.

Now, pumpkin, knowing that you are coming, that responsibility has shifted. It is not with thoughts of the repercussions on myself that I consider courses of action, or regret decisions I have made. You, pumpkin, are my responsibility, and it is for you that I must now live my life.

Love you,