Hello little person,
I was nervous, so anxiously nervous and excited to meet you. I am not the most maternal person by any stretch of the imagination. I worried I wouldn't have the right response when you at last arrived.
For months I sang to you, talked to you, laughed as you moved. When I skied fast and sure, I willed the energy of the mountain to you. My love of the clean clear cold to you. On my one little flight this spring I thought about you, I prayed my love of discovery, change and beauty would be yours. When my darling and I went camping, hiking, exploring, I hoped some memory of the smell of the dusty desert, the pine needles, the snap of the camp fire and blue berry pancakes and coffee would find it's way to you.
I carefully wrote up a simple birth plan and shared it with the doctor and hospital staff. I found a copy of it this morning and snickered.
Labor was the most difficult, personally challenging task I have ever undertaken. Ever. I was not afraid leading up to it, which is my style, I usually put off being afraid until I actually get to what I might be scared of.
I was afraid of labor somewhere around 7pm and at 9 1/2 centimeters dilated. Contractions were waves; Pacific coast waves, massive-forceful-pummeling-cliffs type of waves. They swept over me, drowning me in them. I was not 'I' and me was not me. I was a passenger in the unbreakable rip tide and the current swallowed me in it.
I was hoarse for a week afterwards. I will skip all of the details and move on to you.
At 12:34am, they put your tiny self on my chest, goo and all. Your wide dark terrified eyes were searching all around you and I answered, "Hey there little one."
And your eyes, still too under developed to truly make me out, reflected recognition of my voice. Your cries subsided for a moment and I knew you and you knew me.
Mine. Mine for this instant. So very soon, you will begin to define yourself, belong to yourself but for the next couple of years, you are mine and I am yours.
In the dark hospital room I watched my sweetheart bath you, cuddle you close and watched you feel safe, Your little tense body, so exhausted, relaxed into his strong arms. Later we all cuddled in the hospital bed together and we were all safe because we were all together.
There has been very little quiet since the small hours after your birth. In the last two weeks, our diverse tribe, compiled of friends and family members, have come by daily to meet you. Their support has been a loud distracting life line in a world of deprived sleep and overwhelmed emotions of joy and mild terror. Honestly, I long for silence and an empty house with only the three of us present. I am trying to be patient. Soon, everyone will go away. After all, even my own Mother came for three short days.
Before I digress completely, I had nothing to worry about. You are so perfect, (says every Mom), but you really are. You are perfect.
I was nervous, so anxiously nervous and excited to meet you. I am not the most maternal person by any stretch of the imagination. I worried I wouldn't have the right response when you at last arrived.
For months I sang to you, talked to you, laughed as you moved. When I skied fast and sure, I willed the energy of the mountain to you. My love of the clean clear cold to you. On my one little flight this spring I thought about you, I prayed my love of discovery, change and beauty would be yours. When my darling and I went camping, hiking, exploring, I hoped some memory of the smell of the dusty desert, the pine needles, the snap of the camp fire and blue berry pancakes and coffee would find it's way to you.
I carefully wrote up a simple birth plan and shared it with the doctor and hospital staff. I found a copy of it this morning and snickered.
Labor was the most difficult, personally challenging task I have ever undertaken. Ever. I was not afraid leading up to it, which is my style, I usually put off being afraid until I actually get to what I might be scared of.
I was afraid of labor somewhere around 7pm and at 9 1/2 centimeters dilated. Contractions were waves; Pacific coast waves, massive-forceful-pummeling-cliffs type of waves. They swept over me, drowning me in them. I was not 'I' and me was not me. I was a passenger in the unbreakable rip tide and the current swallowed me in it.
I was hoarse for a week afterwards. I will skip all of the details and move on to you.
At 12:34am, they put your tiny self on my chest, goo and all. Your wide dark terrified eyes were searching all around you and I answered, "Hey there little one."
And your eyes, still too under developed to truly make me out, reflected recognition of my voice. Your cries subsided for a moment and I knew you and you knew me.
Mine. Mine for this instant. So very soon, you will begin to define yourself, belong to yourself but for the next couple of years, you are mine and I am yours.
In the dark hospital room I watched my sweetheart bath you, cuddle you close and watched you feel safe, Your little tense body, so exhausted, relaxed into his strong arms. Later we all cuddled in the hospital bed together and we were all safe because we were all together.
There has been very little quiet since the small hours after your birth. In the last two weeks, our diverse tribe, compiled of friends and family members, have come by daily to meet you. Their support has been a loud distracting life line in a world of deprived sleep and overwhelmed emotions of joy and mild terror. Honestly, I long for silence and an empty house with only the three of us present. I am trying to be patient. Soon, everyone will go away. After all, even my own Mother came for three short days.
Before I digress completely, I had nothing to worry about. You are so perfect, (says every Mom), but you really are. You are perfect.
