Babycakes is a year old today. And I'm feeling kind of sentimental about it. So watch out - this post is more serious and personal than usual. I wrote this shortly after Babycakes was born. It's kind of a love letter to a newborn and a reflection on motherhood.
"Love" doesn’t begin to describe it. Any mother could tell you that.
Cradling my newborn, warm and fleshy against my skin, his simple presence erases the blinding white pain of childbirth. Completely forgotten are my stitches, stretch marks, sore nipples. And nine months of leg cramps, back aches and rib pain, erased in an instant.
All for the trademark baby-scent of milk breath and Pampers. A smell that makes middle-aged women huff at baby heads like teenage junkies. They know what it's like. To be someone else's hero, his life-support and protector.
Even though we've just met, I already know every inch of this ball-of-baby. The silky peach-fuzz head. Roly-poly thighs. Razor-sharp half-moon fingernails. Folds and creases where wrists belong. I don’t recognize my own misshapen silhouette, but I know every baby toe, the smell, the taste, the texture.
Those drooly nuzzles and gummy grins - that's the stuff I live for. And I, sleep deprived and dumpy, am his light, his strength, his everything.
11 months ago