When The Husband and I were discussing paint colors after we moved into our house, there was one in particular I had in mind: red. I’ve always loved the warmth of a deeply red room, and I went to Sherwin Williams and picked out a color called Poinsettia for our den. After TH successfully coated the nursery walls in Rhythmic Blue, he decided to take on the Poinsettia downstairs and recently finished the den-bathroom combo job. I was removing the painter’s tape from the baseboards the other day and watched as little flakes and drops of red materialized on white. I sat on the floor and leaned over as much as The Kid would allow, scrubbing at the paint with a cleanser-soaked paper towel and fingernails. Red on white–few combinations are more noticeable.

You would think it should be my favorite color, red: we’ve coated part of our house with it, including the front door; it’s the hue of my hair; it describes my face whenever I’m hot, embarrassed, angry, nervous, winded, sunburned, just about anything. The other day I was answering a marketing research survey for cash (Indignities of the Unemployed, Part 34) and was asked what color best describes me. I answered with my actual favorite color–blue–and when asked to explain why, answered, “because I’m calm.” Then my face turned red at this bold-faced lie and I was glad I wasn’t being questioned in person. From the flaring of my temper to the fairness of my skin, red would have represented the truth.

Minutes after The Niece was born, the Bro-in-Law texted that she had red hair, and The Sis and I were thrilled that her locks maintained the hue over time. Then I got pregnant and discovered one of the many biological facts associated with carrying a child; namely, that my blood volume would increase by 40% to support this new life (that’s 2-4 pounds of just blood, y’all). A good portion of that volume was removed earlier this week when I underwent a three-hour glucose test to find out if I have gestational diabetes. When I arrived, and every hour thereafter, I was stuck with a needle in alternating arms and watched my blood fill a tube: deep, red, plentiful. Blood donation for a greater cause. The last round, the phlebotomist couldn’t–despite several jabs–locate the vein in my left arm, so she switched back to my right. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, HE’S worth it became my mantra as my stomach cried out for relief from fasting and I watched the tube finally fill. Then, the bandages on both arms; the return to the bathroom floor and the scrubbing of red from white; red taken on The Kid’s behalf and splattered by TH on mine. The color of sacrifice. The color of life.