It’s been ages. I mean ages since I’ve written anything more substantial than a grocery list. Sad. Honestly though I’m exhausted. The birth of Aaron took us by storm and tossed us around like rag dolls. Do people ever recover from having children? I mean, these people, new human beings called kids, are with us forever and ever. We are no longer alone. We are no longer just responsible for ourselves. We are in charge now. We make the rules (or not).
Almost 10 months postpartum and I’m still feeling my way around. It’s dark yet. I can make out shapes but more than that it is a stretch of the imagination. Sleep deprivation took hold long ago; in the early days and weeks. I thought the last stages of pregnancy would have prepared me. Not so much. Nothing. And I mean NOTHING can prepare a soul for parenthood. I don’t care what anyone says.
I love my boy more than life itself. As I lay him down to sleep tonight I mumbled about in my head on how I would describe such love. The best thing I could come up with? He, my son, his the heart of my heart. That’s it. And really all the sleepless nights, the arguing with Erich, the frustrations with not knowing what we’re doing – it’s all small stuff. We have a baby. A warm, live being made from our parts. Some people don’t ever get the chance to experience this. For that I’m grateful.
I went back to work full time in October of 2014 when Aaron was 11 weeks old. It seems so long ago. Like a fuzzy dream. I just remember how much I worried and fretted over details that now seem so insignificant. One thing I worried about? That Aaron wouldn’t know me if I worked so much. That other caretakers would become the object of his affection. This couldn’t be further from the truth. When I arrive home after a long day’s work this ‘heart of my heart’ perks up with visible distraught until I wrap my arms around him and kiss his ruddy cheeks. I stroke his hair, close my eyes and draw a deep breath in.
I am home baby. I am home.