Motherhood Wonderment

I want to write about something a little more serious, a little more poignant and a lot closer to my heart.

My daughter!

I am just flabbergasted at how infatuated with her I still am today, two and a half years after her birth. When she was first born, I would sit for hours, just watching her sleep, her face so peaceful and perfect. I tried to memorize the curves of her baby cheeks, her baby nose and the placement of the fuzz on her little baby head. Now, those memories are faded and worn, and I find myself searching the deepest recesses of my brain to find the wrinkle where those details are hiding. But, I also find myself doing the same thing with my daughter today, and it still amazes me.

I can still stare at my daughter and, after all this time of being a mother to her, can’t believe that she was made from me. Although her nine month gestation was all too real, and I can still feel the kicks of her feet in my ribcage, it still seems surreal that I carried her around inside of me and gave birth to her so effortlessly. How could my body know what to do? How is it that she made her way into the world like a wise old sage and changed my life with one breath and a wail? Surely there is some kind of magic involved, for how can we, as humans, be so fallible, yet create such perfection?

This afternoon I found myself swelling with joy and pride and, yes, disbelief, as I looked at my daughter–her unblemished little face, crowned by golden silky tendrils, her smile so big and genuine. This is my baby girl? I am still waiting to wake up from this dream of motherhood, to find that somehow these past two and a half years were all a figment of my imagination. How else could I have ended up with this perfect little creature–this creature that feels like she is still a part of me, and if she were not there, I would lose myself?

To this day, I am still excited to see her in the morning, after a long night of her absence. I miss her terribly when she is away from me, with an ache that starts in my belly and travels to my heart until I feel my heart won’t pump until I see her again. I still love touching her face, feeling the softness of her skin, running my fingers through her hair, dressing her, bathing her, holding her hand, kissing her goodnight. And when she utters those four words “I love you Mommy,” my heart still grows to three times its size and sometimes, yes sometimes, I even well up with tears.

How can I still feel this way after two and a half years?

I don’t know. But I hope I can hang on to it for just a little while longer.

Or forever.