As a young, sleep-deprived mother who had undergone an unexpected traumatic surgery and a painful labor after a surprise pregnancy I had never really considered myself lucky. Blessed, certainly. Full of love and joy most definitely. But never lucky.
I have thought of that man and his words over the past two years more than I can count. I think about when I was pregnant and how every morning felt like waking up from a wonderful dream in reverse. I would remember my pregnancy in small moments throughout the day and my heart would flutter and a surge of excitement would burn in my chest. It was like getting little gifts throughout the weeks. Here a flutter, then a push. I now see what a miracle he is, how his chances of never existing were so much greater than his spontaneous blooming into being. Now when I look back at Flynn's ultrasound pictures I see the face that I love so dearly, squished and distorted, but still so undeniably him. I think about how kind and loving he has become, how funny, how brave, and I often wonder what I have done to deserve the great honor of being his mother. He fills my heart with joy. I miss his company when he takes a several hours long nap. I love his smell, his little pointed teeth, his beautiful eyes that remind me of the color of the sea. He has changed our lives in so many tiny miraculous ways. Sometimes I feel frustrated, tired, weighed down with the ups and downs of toddlerhood. But he has given me such hope. And that wise, unknown stranger was right; more than anything my son makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.