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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)

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