He wasn’t ever supposed to happen. I had given up hope long ago and hardened my heart as a way to dull the pain of what I wanted so much but could not have. But then my little miracle happened, and life took a completely new direction.
He’s growing and changing so fast. I swear, he’s bigger after every nap. He already knows I’ll do anything to make him smile. That increasingly drooly, gummy grin that lights up his face – and mine.
I know the sound of his cries and what they mean. I know the difference between half-lidded contentment and half-lidded sleepiness. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been pee’d on. I congratulate him on particularly epic diapers or hard-fought farts. We discuss the Adventures of Mr. Giraffe in the Strawberry Car and his travels to the Land of Poo while waiting for the inevitable on the changing table. (The folks at IKEA are smoking some good Comfy Couch before coming up with their stuffed baby toys.)
He’s talking to us now. Not really, but he’s starting to communicate with us in ways other than crying. He coos and gurgles – not quite laughing, but getting there. He hangs out with us now instead of just falling back asleep after eating. He has opinions and makes them known. We’re fairly certain he’s already Yelped us.
The feel of his hot little breath against my cheek as he voices his displeasure at how long the bottle warmer takes. That same hot breath, gentle now against my neck as his head gets heavier and heavier after he burps and collapses into sleep at his midnight feeding.
I never knew I could love someone this much. It’s primal, visceral. I miss him when he naps – the need to be with him is so strong. I’m tired, but I’m reluctant to put him back in his crib now in the dead of night. Kissing his soft little cheek for the umpteenth time as I carry him to his room, it’s so delicious, I have to kiss him again.
How on earth is it possible that I am this little boy’s mother? He wasn’t supposed to happen, and I will never be the same.