We arrived to my room, and I was yearning to hold my baby. He was rolled in seconds after I was. I can still see his little body coming my way as I euphorically looked for him. He was crying and I began saying, “Oh my God, oh my God, give him to me …” My voice was shaky and strangely lush. He was handed to me and immediately, I stopped shaking, completely, and he stopped crying, completely. His eyes met me—he SAW me, he knew me, into me, around me, and he was home. He stared at me intensely and curiously, his blue eyes beaming right into mine. We knew each other. I recognized him, he was so familiar and yet so new. He was beautiful, breathtaking. I cried and felt this buzzing in my chest, heart, and tummy. I felt a vibration. Then a release, like a waterfall inside of me, washing through my whole body from my head to my toes.
Holding him, I was sobbing with joy and awe. He was so pink and soft. I held him all night, he never went to the nursery. I refused to put him down, even in the crib. I held him in the crook of my arm at night. I awoke that first night and looked down, this glowing golden light was all around him. He was sleeping deeply, making sweet noises. It was magical. That magic has never left me, I don’t think it ever will. Does it matter that he traveled through my belly to get to me? Not at all if we are measuring my primal love for him, yes indeed if we are thanking the heavens for modern medicine. I am grateful for both, but more than anything, for the fact that he exists in my life.
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