She started out like this.
As my doula pointed out, she joined us peacefully and without hesitation. I will never forget the power behind her birth, nor the intensity of the pain, nor the completeness and immediacy of my love for her. The doctor handed her over and I thought, “this is her? This is the tiny person we’ve been waiting for all these months? Of course it is. This is her. This is my baby. Now how do I feed her?” Even though I’d been up since 4:30 am (when my water broke), and I’d completed the marathon that is giving birth, I didn’t sleep again until a day or two later. I couldn’t. Especially not the first night. All I could do was watch her, and nurse her, and kiss her.
Two years later, she looks like this. She is busy and curious and full of life.
She doesn’t fit into my arms quite so comfortably any more. But she still fits.
How do they get so big so fast? Where do our babies go?
Are they still in there somewhere? Are there little, squishy and helpless beings contained in those busy, wily toddlers? What about the adults, so complex and damaged and wise? What happens to our infant self? Is she gone forever or do we carry her with us every where we go, into every thing we embark upon?
I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that there is an innocent, tiny babe deep within each of us, living only off of our mother’s unwavering love.