I remember, for both of our boys, that monumental appointment with the doctor–past the initial confirmation stages of pregnancy, into the early ultrasound visits, and then finally…the Doppler heartbeat moment. The placement of the device on the belly, the searching, the anxiety, the discovery. The quiet flutter at first growing into a steady, sure galloping. The confirmation and security it brought every visit after.

The Sister sent me an audio file of The Niece’s heartbeat, which I saved to my music library, the year before The Kid’s became a part of my life, a few years before Little Brother’s did. Feeling like a sentimental creep, I would pair it with José González’s “Heartbeats” and think ahead to a time when that kind of rhythm may/would rest within my own belly. Now that they have, and now reside outside it, I can hardly believe they were ever there: ever small enough to fit there, ever that fetal-fast beat compared with the slowed-down thrum of childhood that I feel when they rest their huge heads on me at the end of a long, full day.

There is a heartbeat to all things. When I was in the city last week, awaiting entry into the building where I took my dental exam, I was reminded of the city’s heartbeat, the one I heard daily on the streets of New York: the banging of steel as it’s gathered and formed into buildings that become skyline; the push-pull of buses stopping and starting at traffic lights; the walking signals turning off and on and the human traffic responding to them. I hear a heartbeat on the basketball court when the boys play in their new leagues: the beating of the ball on the ground while it’s dribbled and the beats between shots that soar into the air then return to land after each shot, successful or not.

These games–oh, these games. And I thought an exam was stressful! My heart running out on that court within them now, thirty minutes spent in their sweat and my anxiety. I remember back when I was a spelling bee champion (hey, it’s a sport too; it even runs on ESPN) and would watch The Dad leave the venue. I thought he was bored until The Mom told me he couldn’t handle the pressure. It was his heartbeat for me, love expressed in a way I didn’t recognise until I did. And now…I get it. I plant myself in the hard plastic seat and watch LB’s shots, his confidence, his focus, on Tuesdays; and on Saturdays, I watch TK’s hesitation, his own nervousness, his quick passes. I know his unsureness as both his and my own, and I ache for his inclusion even as it’s happening in front of my eyes. I ride this emotional coaster for thirty minutes that feel like thirty years then watch him come off the court, grinning, and I realise that maybe things don’t have to be as fraught as I think they are. But I doubt this will change anytime soon. Ever since I heard their own rhythm next to mine, my heart has only beat one way: relentlessly, painfully, wonderfully. For them.