Some things I can’t write about.
Because how do you find the words to describe what it’s like to lie awake with a newborn, feeding, changing, patting, singing, cooing, vigilantly watching? To know that you are the most important thing in this creature’s existence, you are their all, their everything? How do you describe the deep sense of belonging, and knowing, and being, that comes with that?
How do you describe the conflict inside you, desperate to sleep yet totally devoted to being the everything that this tiny human being needs?
And how do you explain the sadness that comes when you realize that your nightly one on one time that you were so desperate to reduce (because sleep) has actually reduced, and you no longer have long moments where everyone else is asleep and it’s just you and baby against the world?
How do you use words to describe the moment when, a year and a half later, when you have a walking talking toddler who has just fallen asleep beside you as the sun slants through the window onto her cheek, and it all comes flooding back – the moments, the love, the connection, the worries and fears and the love and the love and the love?
What words can capture the mixture of pride and deep sadness at the growth and accomplishments, and all the endings that happen when you know you are rocking your last baby?
This sleeper is adorable, I’ll pack it up for someone else’s child.
I love watching them play with this toy. Let’s think who would love it next.
I guess I won’t need these blankets again, They can go to the next stop on the baby-go-round.
It’s surrender. It’s joy. It’s sadness. It’s echoes, echoes, echoes …