I know I haven't told you the birth story or even announced that Addie has arrived.
But sparks of inspiration come in fascinating ways (and those things are coming soon).
I can be sitting here with the window open to the sunshine, reading What Mothers Do which I got from Becky, and all the sudden I notice that the little baby girl sleeping on my chest has her arm around me. She breathes softly, then loudly, then quickly, then raspy. I love her. Ours is truly a love story being written by the moment. I thought that term—love story—seemed wrong for a mother-child relationship before I was a mother with a child. Now I know that it fits perfectly. We are living a love story.
Being a mom means all new things to me, now that I’m actually a mom. Three weeks ago I saw a couple I knew pushing their screaming baby in a stroller and I immediately scowled that they could let their child just cry like that. But now I know. Sometimes you just have to let them cry. And I don’t think it’s bad to tune out the crying either. I would go insane if I took every whimper, every shriek, every blood-curdling scream to heart. For the first few days, my baby girl’s sobs left me crumpled on the bed with my own lake of tears. Her umbilical cord stub fell off on her fourth day of life (they’re supposed to stay on for about two weeks) and when I saw it lying there on the blanket, Addie’s screams piercing the bedroom air, I sobbed and sobbed. What had I done? I brought a baby into the world and now her body is falling apart and she’s screaming like her life is a torment. Just then, Daddy put her on my legs and her cries stopped all at once. She grabbed one of my fingers in each of her tiny hands and just stared at me. What a miracle this is. God has sent me a miracle. Right then I knew that Addie is on my side. We will be a team as we write our story together. Sometimes she’ll cry and sometimes I’ll cry, but what else is new in life? Sometimes you just have to cry to make yourself feel better, and once your energy is drained and your mind feels empty, you realize how great you really have it. And then you smile and it’s all okay again.
I love this little girl curled into a ball on my lap. We sing songs and eat Eggos and read books—or rather, I sing and eat and read while she sits in the crook of my arm, usually snoring a little bit. As Naomi Stadlen says, “slowly we [are working] out a rhythm of being together.” We accept each other, both tears and smiles. Our life together is simple and peaceful. Joys come from long naps and warm breezes through the window and visits from friends instead of aced exams, essay contests, and new clothes.
I stroke her hair and she yanks mine. I kiss her cheeks and she sucks on my skin. I feed her milk and she soils my shirt with spit-up. And it’s all wonderful. Our forms of love will change over time; in fact, they change a little every day. For now, I’ll take the yanking and soiling over anything.
This is my life—full of love—and I couldn’t be more content.