But now you’re my whole life
Now you’re my whole world
I just can’t believe the way I feel about you
Like a river meets the sea
Stronger than it’s ever been
We’ve come so far since that day
And I thought I loved you then
-B. Paisely-
Parenthood is so different the second time around. When I was pregnant with Covyn, I was filled with so much wonder and curiosity and intense interest in the birth process that it was difficult to see beyond that awesome, looming experience and imagine what it would actually feel like to hold my own child in my arms. All I knew was what everyone had told me about motherhood: that the second your baby is born and his tiny body is placed on your chest, you fall in love immediately. For me, this was only partially true. My love for him was, without a doubt, immediate… a first sight kind of feeling. He was mine and I was his and we were bonded by how far we’d already traveled together. But did I fall in love with in that moment? No. I thought I did. I would have told you back then that I had. But no… the falling is such a slow, sweet process. Although I’d grown him –as if by a miracle– from my own body, he was still brand new to me. I didn’t know him. In those early days, I learned him in all of the superficial ways at first: his patterns, his needs, what he liked, what he didn’t like… but getting to know his soul as it unfolded before me, and getting to know myself again with all of these brand new changes… well, that took time. And though I loved every moment of it, the learning curve that accompanied early parenthood was sure, swift. But, good god, it was beautiful. Imagine a slow motion recap of a diver leaping from a high board, her body curled tightly in a ball that gradually unfurls and then freely soars through the air before breaking the surface of the water and plunging smoothly down into the cool, refreshing depths. Navigating our new lives together felt that way. Scary at first, but then awe inspiring and free.
There is something about getting to know a person who is brand new, who comes unattached to history or circumstance, that is so crazy exhilarating it takes my breath away. And yet, it comes with an unexpected intimidation factor when that person is your own, when it is your job to help guide and shape the particulars of his environment, all of those little nuances that will impact whom he will grow into. We were on a journey together; one, I would come to realize, that was full of steep, delicious descents of falling deeper and deeper in love with my little human. With each smile, each new word, each first, he grew and shifted subtely –moment by moment– into his own person.
And I
continued
to
fall.
But when Summit was born and his tiny purple arms flailed wildly in search of me, and they placed his soft and warm little body on my bare chest, and he cooed himself to quiet and snuggled against me with an air of wise awareness that he’d just come through a mighty move through the cold from one warm home to the next, I fell all at once. Covyn had already taught me about the multitudinous layers of love that build one on top of the next until you know you’ve fallen so totally and completely and unconditionally in love that your heart could burst. And as I gazed at Summit and looked from his daddy back down to him with my mouth open wide in sheer awe, his infancy and toddlerhood flashed before my eyes as if on a movie reel. I saw him in all his his iterations and the knowledge of how much my love would grow with each passing second made my heart tumble forward. The falling was immediate. We belonged to each other.
The days since, albeit one giant blur of time passing waytoofast have been nothing short of delightful. I keep him tucked in my arms every second I get, all with a bittersweet awareness that he won’t always fit so snugly in the crook. When he wakes me in the darkness of twelve and two and six, I relish those quiet moments alone with him while the rest of the house sleeps soundly. He smiles now when I look at him; his eyes follow his big brother around the room as he plays; he coos and stares as if adoringly into my eyes when I sing to him: “Baby don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing is gonna be alright.” And I just keep soaring downward in my pleasant descent. Free falling into him.
