And in this exact moment right now you are again peaceful, quiet, snuggled in close to me. The laptop is casting a glow on your face in our dark bedroom, and I am a little worried that its light and my keystrokes will wake you from your 3:46am slumber, but that worry is trumped by another mounting worry: that I won't remember the feeling of these exquisitely tender nighttime moments between you and me--the ones where you just faintly stir from your sleep, gently wake me for a feeding, your plump little arms and legs tucked in close to my body as you quietly and methodically nurse. I worry that I will forget the sensation of these little moments when I cradle your warm, soft body to mine, and it feels like it's only you and me in the quiet of the early, early morning. This morning the worry of forgetting was suddenly so powerful, enough to wake me completely and force me out of the bed and into the kitchen to retrieve the laptop so I could write this. I am terrified of losing these memories, of forgetting the sensation of your sleepily nursing mid-night warmth.
You are a flurry of milestones right now, each one coming faster than the previous. Yesterday you crawled for the first time, wobbly shuffling on your hands and knees from your dad to me for a distance of about five feet. Wide-eyed and holding our breath we watched you in amazement, excitedly encouraging you along. And then this morning you effortlessly pulled yourself up on your bookshelf in your nursery. We stood there, both so paralyzed in astonishment that we didn't catch you when you toppled backwards and bumped your head. I scooped you up immediately, and rocked you, soothed you, nursed you. And I as I nursed you I pondered the parenting lesson that had just unfolded: Did I fail you by not foreseeing how you'd likely hurt yourself trying this new thing? Did I grant you too much independence in that moment? Did I convey to you in my response that I will be there when you are hurting, to scoop you up and let you know that everything will be okay?
I was sifting through some old photos for a friend recently, and I came across a couple of pictures from our beach vacation last May. When I look at pictures or recall certain memories, they now fall into two explicit categories: Before Arlo and After Arlo. But as I looked at these pictures I couldn't deposit them neatly into either category. It was strange. Those events occurred before your birth, sure. But I can't say they were before you. You were there. You, my sweet babe, existed. Perhaps merely as a tiny party of cells inside of me, but you were alive and in this world.
In one picture I was standing in the surf with my back to the camera. My jeans were rolled up to my knees, and I was facing the breaking waves. The ocean looked wild, immense and endless before me. I was 7 weeks pregnant, excitedly anticipating the ultrasound appointment scheduled for the following week that would confirm your existence. Looking at the photo I tried to recall what I was feeling in that moment, and what registered with me was as wild, immense and seemingly endless as the ocean crashing and receding around me: tenuousness. I don't think I ever exhaled during that week.
I spent our morning beach walks collecting the beaten conch and scallop shells abandoned on the shore by the night's high tide. I would search for the tiniest shells I could find, and I would study their tiny shapes in my palm. I quietly and longingly wondered about their size in relation to you. I brought them home from that vacation as if they were some sort of talisman that would ensure your little heart's continued flickering. They sit in a jar on my bedside table now.
Everything felt so tenuous and uncertain then, but here you are, my little Arlo. You are so interactive, so expressive, so purposeful. Earlier today I sat across from you and affectionately marveled while you played with your toys. You sat there in a onesie slightly too big for you, babbling animatedly to yourself, sitting up so perfectly and strongly, reaching with precision and purpose, investigating your toys with such intense inquiry. And as I watched you a wave of unrelenting awe crashed around me: You are a stunning little being. You are a whole new little person in this world. You exist. You are my son. My son. I am your mother.
My love for you, my sweet baby Arlo, is wild, immense and endless.
~Your mother
(Written 6/20/2011)
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