Seven months ago you emerged, pink, warm and perfect in the cold, stainless room. Chris held my face and hands, then tucked your tiny body in his shirt just like we’d hoped he could. In the next room, I hugged you softly and looked down, my loud turquoise nails and brass whale necklace reminding me how transient this moment, this collection of moments would be—my mind racing, even then, to my necklace seeping into my nightstand drawer and my polish chipping away as you would grow and grow, ceaselessly, relentlessly—already, under my steady gaze.
I held your hand in the car ride home, cradled you on the suede forest couch, smiled at your tiny mouth on my skin and our four months ahead. I loved your tired baby cries just as much as your smiles, reveled in my exhaustion as much as my joy, because I knew your perfection in each moment was unique and passing.
I took you on warm fall walks, snapping pictures of you in your buggy under the turning leaves. I slept with you on the couch, waking every 3 hours to the minute to feed you and worry about you in your sleep.
One special day, you smiled for the first time. Then, you scooched. Rolled. Laughed. Squealed. More recently, you cooed and made the “mmm” sound as we gave you a taste of banana. Our journey together is already a snowball, lithe and airy, tumbling down a steep hill, one moment piling onto the next onto the next. My love and Chris’ love and our love for you and each other are melting together, crystallizing into a sparkling sphere of light and being and blood and warm skin and touch.
At seven months, you are curious and messy and incandescent. I still wake every 3 hours to the minute to worry about you in your sleep. Every morning, you emerge, pink, warm and perfect just like you did in your very first hour, and I go to heaven for a few minutes when I bring you into our bed and I lay sandwiched between you and Chris. A circuit. Complete.