I have a confession to make: I’m in love with man who is not my husband. I am completely, totally and utterly in love with my son.
From the moment he was released from my body, eyes already wide open to the world, I knew my heart was his. The first night after he was born, every time I closed my eyes all I could see was his face. I used to wonder how parents recognized their newborns; they all looked the same to me, their faces swollen, their features blurry and soft. I had my son’s face memorized as soon as I saw him, as if I had already known what he looked like and actually laying eyes on him was simply an act of recognition.
I love his perfect roundness, his soft weight on my chest like a breathing stone, sound asleep after eating. I love his tiny baby noises, sighs of satisfaction while he nurses, gulps and deep breaths. When he falls asleep his face relaxes into gentle curves, the corners of his mouth down-turned, cheeks drooping, eyelids heavy. He nuzzles himself into the curve of my neck, arms spread wide to cover my chest, my arms wrapped around him in return.
I was never a girl who was baby-crazy. I didn’t make goo-goo faces or baby talk, I haven’t had my nursery theme picked out since I was young. But now that I’m a mother, I get it, that complete absorption in your child, to the total exclusion of everything else. I’m still not baby-crazy, I’m just crazy about my baby.