May 10, 2024

A Love Letter to my 8-Month-Old Son.

Celebrate the mamas in your life:
>> How I’m Learning to Break Out of “Miracle Mom” Perfectionism.
>> What we can do for Mom, this Mother’s Day. {Video & Podcast}
>> The One Thing I Wish I had Known Before Becoming a Mom.
>> Why I’m Saying No to the Traditional Mother’s Day Baloney.

~

{*Did you know you can write on Elephant? Here’s how—big changes: How to Write & Make Money or at least Be of Benefit on Elephant. ~ Waylon}

 

It’s 8 a.m., the sun is up, we’re lying in bed…skin-to-skin.

I’m breastfeeding you, and you’re hugging my breast with one arm. I can feel the other one slightly below my left shoulder and I worry if it’s getting numb. Your tiny feet are against my thighs and every now and then you move your beautifully shaped toes so you can feel my thighs just to make sure that I’m still here.

I can hear your breath getting heavier and heavier as you’re about to fall asleep. I look at your face and spot some breastmilk on the corner of your mouth and I can’t help but smile.

Have I told you that your hair turns gold in the daytime? It’s soft and it’s long now and I feel like running my fingers through its delicate strands but I stop myself and remember that your comfort is more important than my temporary desires.

I peek at your soft, pink-ish skin and I wonder if I have kissed you everywhere. Have I kissed you everywhere? I should kiss you everywhere. I don’t want to miss a spot.

The other day I held your elbow and kissed it and told you that I wish you could remember that moment because no one might kiss you there ever again.

I’m breastfeeding you and I can feel your heartbeat against mine and I recall the first time I saw and heard your beating heart on an ultrasound. I know you will think this story is cheesy and boring and you’d like me to spare you the details by the time you’re 15, but on that day, I would like you to know that I sobbed.

I wouldn’t have expected that a heart so small, beating so fast, could make me shed so many tears.

I glance at the mosquito bite on your arm and feel bad for not protecting you from it. It’s just a bite, mommy, I imagine you saying to me when you’re a little older while I, lost for words, fail to explain to you this inexplicable need within me to protect you from all harm.

But I know I can only do so much. I can’t shield you from the heartbreaks that life will inevitably put in your way. But I promise to guide you on the right path and teach you how to open your heart so you can let pain transform you into a better version of yourself.

I’m breastfeeding you and you grab my nose with your gentle hands. They smell like carrots and sweet milk and I chuckle as you try to insert your thumb into my nostrils.

I’m breastfeeding you and I keep thinking how unfair it is that I will remember those details about you but you won’t. I will always be the one who has witnessed all your milestones and probably the only one who might cry over them.

I’m breastfeeding you and I keep thinking how sad it is that I have seen all your firsts but I might not live long enough to see all your lasts.

I know the young you but I will never know the old you. I won’t see the wrinkles, the grey hair, or the tired body. But you will see mine and it’s sad but it’s life and there’s nothing I can do about it except look at you right now and appreciate you and appreciate that life has given me you.

I love you.

~

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