Love is not a plenum

 I have the most difficult time imagining let alone explaining the Big  Bang. There is this thing to which there is no outside but contains  everything–all space, time, motion, light, life, stars, planets,  galaxies, moons, atmosphere, gravity and imagination. I can only  envision a balloon expanding that captures a portion of its essence, its  configuration. But balloons are plenums of sorts. ple·num
ˈplenəm,ˈplēnəm/
noun
1.
an assembly of all the members of a group or committee.
2.
PHYSICS
a space completely filled with matter, or the whole of space so regarded. 

I refer to the second definition when I think of the universe’s (or  multiverse’s) origins. But no one knows whether the universe is a  plenum. Our minds can only understand to the reaches of our  imaginations. 

One day, over 17 years ago, I lay with my then 2 and 1/2 year old  first born curled in fetal sleep. To this day, I can recall so crisply  the angst I felt with another life brewing inside me. “How could I  possibly love another child when my heart is so full with this one  here?” I thought in a painfully probably hormone-induced teary-eyed  moment. 

Though quite illogical, the angst grew during my second pregnancy.  Today, as that second born turns 17, I reflect on the framework of her  arrival–as a storied gift to her sister and an ill-conceived  mathematical challenge to my miscalculated quantity of allotted love.

 Like the Big Bang theory, the mystery of beginnings, dimensions and  edges to inside and outside belong to love–which is definitely not a  plenum. Happy birthday to my brown-eyed wonder.