Thomas and a buddy, nappingSorry for the extended absentee-ism, but I have two very good excuses (see above!)
These last eight days have been such a whirlwind of events, hormones, feedings, diapers and love that I feel like I can barely catch my breath.
I never realized how much you could love these little creatures, how hard it could be to even be in a separate room from them. They are funny, with their multitude of facial expressions, all the silly movements they make awake and in sleep... all their little sounds and just the look in their eyes when you pick them up, give them a cuddle or feed them. And their long fingers and toes are just delicious for the snacking!
Angelina had it totally wrong when she said that newborns are blobs.
My sweet boys are the most engaging creatures I have ever met and I'd much rather watch them sleep than watch any movie. I would rather nuzzle the soft fuzz on their heads than wear cashmere. And I would rather have my heart filled to bursting with my love for them than any other sort of passion.
I'm partial, I know, but I just think that they are, hands down, the most fascinating people that I have ever met. And I can't wait for you to meet them!
Now I have to go take a shower, because nobody likes a dirty, grotty Mama.
4 comments:
Such a beautiful post and a GORGEOUS picture!
"I never realized how much you could love these little creatures." Amen, Ali. I agree 100%. What a beautiful first entry after the birth of your boys. You really captured the essence of those amazing feelings.
yes...it is true, one day you have no idea, the next you can't imagine it any other way. Babies are kind of like campfires, you just feel content staring into them.
OK, please forgive the very long comment...but someone from my birth class sent this to me and I can't resist sharing it after reading your lovely post.
Being A Mom
We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family."
"We're taking a survey," she says half-joking.
"Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.
"I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more
spontaneous vacations."
But that is not what I meant at all.
I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her.
I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.
I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal,but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.
That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her
best crystal without a moment's hesitation.
I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine.
However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.
That she would give herself up in a moment to save her children, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.
I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will
become badges of honor.
My daughter's relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks.
I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is
careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his
child.
I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.
I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women
throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk
driving.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.
I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.
I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.
My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes.
"You'll never regret it," I finally say.
Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter's hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.
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