Deep in sleep, newborn cries awaken me from a foggy dream. Not yet a mama for two weeks time, my babe is hungry and we are falling into a routine. A choppy one, but a routine nonetheless.
The rest of the house is quiet as my son and I cozy up on the couch for his early morning feeding. The first of many. He’ll have Hobbit style secondsies in less than an hour to come.
I begin to drift in and out of sleep until my phone beeps letting me know that someone, somewhere is thinking of me.
The last couple of weeks have presented an outpour of love from family and friends:
“Congratulations on the new baby!”
“Can’t wait to meet the little guy!”
“Don’t worry, sleep is only a few years away!”
Message after message made my heart swell with bliss. Yet, one message never came — the one I needed the most. The one from my own mama.
Having died when I was just a child, my mom was never going to meet my son. She would never see his smile. Attend a birthday party. Hear his laughter.
I was going to have to navigate these new, muddy mama waters without the one person so many new moms turn to…their own.
As I sank into my couch, baby on my breast, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. A sadness soon replaced by anger for my mom not having the opportunity to meet this precious six-pound package of perfection.
Now with a full tummy and heavy eyelids, my son fell back into a hazy slumber and I was close behind. It didn’t take long for me to walk into a dream where my mother came and sat down at my kitchen table, soda in hand (a warm Dr. Pepper with lemon, no doubt) and reached for my hand as I sobbed “It’s not fair that you’ll never meet him, mama.”
“It’s okay, sweetie. I met him before you did.”
Just then, my phone beeped letting me know that someone, somewhere was thinking of me.