I Want To Remember Our First Moment Alone

I want to remember 6 AM on December 17, 2012, for as long as my heart can contain it.

I want to remember our first moment alone. After the crazy bustle of the hospital delivery room. After my extended labor experience. After you and Daddy came back to me from an hour in the nursery, and Daddy had finally passed out on the pull-out sofa bed next to us.

I want to remember the serene stillness of that quiet, dark hospital room, and the intoxicating feeling of your warm, new skin finally pressed against mine – the way you curled into me, pressed your cheek against my chest, like you were perfectly at home somewhere you’d never really been, perfectly trusting someone you’d never really known. 

I want to remember how your tiny frame fit perfectly in the nook of my arm, how your dark hair felt against the palm of my hand, how your face twitched into a grin when I gently traced the outline of your chin.

I want to remember how you tensed and then relaxed as I squeezed your feet, and rubbed your little toes like ten perfect rosary beads, how you squirmed when I tried to uncover your hands. Because for whatever reason I suddenly wanted to inspect you – ten fingers, ten toes, everything just as perfect as everyone said. You whimpered and I paused, but the impulse was too much. I struggled to unfold the cuff over your fingers and draw them out of the oversized sleeve with my one free hand, and I hope I always remember how sweet each one seemed when I finally found them.

I want to remember how you gently sighed when I kissed your little palm.

I want to remember those quick, tiny first breaths, and recognizing the feel of the plastic band around your ankle that let the whole world know you were mine.

I want to remember wrapping both arms around you and breathing you in to silence the sob that was building up inside of me, so thankful for the peace and joy over you that was about to break my heart.

We’ve had a lot of alone time in the past six weeks, but I want to remember that moment – that peace, those fingers – for as long as I can.