Skip to main content

The first time I saw you

The first time I saw you, I knew my life would never be the same.

Your face was swollen, red, and puffy, but to me it was the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Everything in you was perfect: your fingers, your toes, your shock of black hair, your newly-opened eyes.

You were the epitome of everything new and good. To me, your existence meant love, hope, and wonder. The gift of you brought to life a part of my heart that I didn't know was there. To put it simply, I never knew a piece of me could exist outside my body.

Also, I never knew the true meaning of “tired” until you came!

Regardless, everything you did was amazing. When you smiled, held your head steady, sat by yourself, clapped, gurgled, crawled, stood, walked, talked... I was giddy with joy. I'd never felt a joy so pure.

For the next three years, my life revolved completely around you (and, eleven months after you came, your sister). My sense of myself – my very existence – was defined by my babies. It was simultaneously wonderful and disturbing.

I remember the day your little sister came. You looked at her, a little confused and very unimpressed. I still have that picture: her red newborn face and your mature, 11-month-old grimace. I guess not much has changed!

Grandma took you in for a few weeks so that – to put it frankly – I wouldn't lose my mind. This helped me immensely, and everything was good while we were apart. But whenever we met, you seemed bewildered. You'd cry and hit your face. Then I'd cry. You didn't have the words to explain why you were upset, and I didn't have the words to explain why I felt I was the worst mother in the world.

That was when I took you back home. No matter how hard it would be, you belonged with me.

Things were never quite calm after that, but I was happy. I was soon choreographing double diaper changes, but I did it with love. Our house was full of smiles, laughter, and our fair share of tears.

As she grew, your little sister was ever in awe of you (some things do change!). She was your shadow, parroting all your babyish words that were easy for her to understand. She learned so fast, watching you. Without a doubt, you were her best teacher. (I still remember her sitting on the green turtle-shaped potty while you sat on the magenta bear-shaped one. You did literally everything together.)

Where have all those years gone? Away, in a series of inhales and exhales. But I still call you my baby.

It was a few weeks ago when I promised I'd always call you my baby, even when you grow taller than me. “Will you promise never to be annoyed?” I asked. You promised.

I hope you never break your promise.

(February 2018)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

To school on a winter morning

I love the walks to school on winter mornings. The crisp weather, the leisurely stride, the friendly banter between my daughters and their cousin. Sometimes they link arms with her—not with each other, to be sure—and sometimes they take quick steps, trying to outpace each other. The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.) We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave. I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways. My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Som...
Post a Comment
Read more

Push back

It's always right there, just around the corner, at your fingertips. A simple tap or click opens it up, and it's ready to swallow you up. Push it back—those floodgates bursting with everything evil and ugly. Push back the paralysis and the despair. We feel a strange obligation towards the despair. We call it being connected, being in-the-know. We faithfully wring our hands at each calamity, scattering broken hearts and crying faces before scrolling past. And then—we're left more disconnected than ever. Emptier than ever. More confused than ever. It's a strange reality that pelts us with images without context. Small, ugly pieces of a larger picture we cannot see. And so, we see the pain, but not the Plan. We see suffering and destruction, but not Mercy, not Love, not Wisdom. We are so focused on the hideous pieces that we forget to look beyond them. Don't be the ostrich; no. But why seek out what will cause you despair? Why jump into a place with no air and then won...
Post a Comment
Read more

When I flew away

I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...
Post a Comment
Read more