Friday, March 7, 2014
Today marks six weeks. It's the first thing I thought of this morning when I woke up. It's the mark that turns newborn into a memory for me. You are a baby now, an infant. No longer so tiny and fragile and new.
I have all but forgotten the months and months of morning sickness. The cranky, sore, tired legs. The heartburn. And sleepless nights from a lack of comfort have turned into sleepless nights nursing and snuggling and making sure ...
I want to forget some things. Things that haunt me.
I want to forget the nurse's emotionless voice, "Call NICU." she tells them ... they don't hear her out in the hallway, though. She has to repeat herself, "Call NICU," she says more urgently.
I want to forget the look on your daddy's face ... that he let go, stepped back, and moved out of the way. It was like he went to a whole other place.
I want to forget my first words to you, "I'm sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry." I was overcome with heartache. With thoughts that the moment I'd look at your crying, wriggling body was not coming. I should have said -- I love you.
I want to forget all these things. But I won't. Not ever.
But I never want to forget ...
... how surprised we were by your dark hair. Hair!
Or your dark blue eyes.
Or how long your tiny fingernails were.
Or the tiny newborn blemish in the corner of your left eye that is almost gone now.
Or how pretty I thought you looked the first time I put you in yellow.
Or how we slept chest to chest for four weeks ... and then all the sudden you were content to just snuggle down beside me in our bed.
Or how you smile at us. A baby's smile. Making me happy for the six week mark. And all the marks to come.
I love you, Miriam Clare.