We walk up a mountain, these children and I.

The first child tramples among wet leaves, ice, and rock. The second sleeps inside of me within the soft bowl of my round belly. We hike, holding onto trees and one another for balance. She bounces in her rubber boots toward trail markers, while I purposefully press my boots onto the ground, step by step, up and up. I am two weeks from my due date.  We rest on stones and damp mossy tree trunks.  We talk and stop and look around a lot.

"Let's be trailblazers!" We say as we head into the wildwood to avoid the slickest and steepest of spots.

After an hour, she starts to sag and say that she's tired. "You are strong. Say, 'I am strong!'"

"I am strong." She says, her posture perking up.

"If you say you're tired, you will feel tired. But if you say you're strong, you will feel strong."

My calves are warm. My breath is quick. My cheeks are pink. The sun pours past the bare trees to shine on this quiet land and to shine on her and me. I am so grateful for these bodies.

"You are strong," I tell her. "You are big and strong."

Eventually, between an icy stream and a parking lot, we sit on a blanket, picnicking on blueberries, fig bars, and peanut butter/jelly sandwiches. While we eat silently, the winter sun seeps into me.

I am strong. Say, I am strong.