A Month of Love
Updated: Mar 21, 2020
For a month, I’ve watched his frog-like legs stretch straighter and longer. Today, a pile of newborn onesies he's outgrown reflect the growth of a milestone I find bitter knowing life only speeds up from here. Indeed, our time together is precious, so I channel what’s sweet by keeping him naked on my chest. It’s bliss to nuzzle the fuzz on the edge of his ear and trace tiny capillaries that weave magenta shapes in his soft, translucent skin.
As his fists unfurl into little hands that rest above my heart, I see how every inch of him is a marvel so perfect he seems unreal. But his toes curl around my nose when I kiss his feet and this reminds me how fully alive we both are. I want to wrap myself up in this moment of Heaven I’ve found on Earth, but my world spins on with a force that unravels our sacred cocoon of love string-by-sting, day-by-day: this is a reality I must face.
Still, life and responsibility asked me to give more than I was ready to give, and to face what I was still too vulnerable to handle in the month he’s grown to need bigger clothes. Reality highlighted a fragility I tried to ignore, and mastitis pulled me back to bed where I belonged—I learned the world could wait.
When I was still enough that he could nurse to his heart’s content, I became a keen observer of the healing process I needed to allow. His infancy beckoned me to give what we both needed: rest, nourishment, and love.
At the height of my 5th postpartum transition, I am reminded we must give love to receive love—but that love we give MUST begin with ourselves. I still need reminders that the path to resilience in motherhood requires as much surrender as it does determination, and that self-care isn’t necessary; it’s survival.