Sometimes I wish I could forget that I dropped him. But the fog that cloaked his arrival with sleepless wonder did not shroud those few horrifying seconds.
Nobody told me how hard this would be. Or did they?
I am wanting my little one to wake up.
Because the bad stuff is easy to remember. And the good stuff, I don't want to forget.
How can I raise this delicate little girl to be strong and independent, to stick up for her rights, to stand out in the crowd?
Adjust. Adapt. Move forward. It’s in our DNA; we evolve.
The double-edged sword is this: the more we grow up, the more we move away from moments like these, face-to-face and heart-to-heart at 2 a.m.
I’m exhausted and long to return to the comfort of my own bed, desperately trying to will the flailing baby in my arms to wear himself out and just go back to sleep.
My daughter had brought something with her into this world: she’d brought hope in like wildflowers, roots and all, rich soil spilling from their leaves.
But the one thing that worries me is when does this all pass on to me? When do I become the mum who knows how to attack any stain on a garment of clothing?