In one week I have gone from being a childfree entity to being someone who can make a peanut butter sandwich with one hand (try it — it ain’t easy). It has been a whirlwind week of disposable diapers and puzzled expressions and gushy coos and sweet kisses on sweet dark-haired heads. I have had a few moments here and there where I wasn’t quite sure what I had gotten myself into, but those always seem to come at the bottom of a well of sleep deprivation, which I’m getting better and better at avoiding. I have had more moments of sublime joy this week than I ever have before, moments where every stray shape floating in the universe found its place and settled in comfortably. Maybe it’s the oxytocin talking, but I love this child and I love being his mama and I love our little family so much that there is almost a sweet pain to it. I know these moments are fleeting, and that the time Holden spends sighing lightly on my shoulder, cradled so tiny in my arms, will not last forever and in fact will some day give way to moments where we butt heads over stupid things like haircuts and grades and maybe even girls (and how none of them are good enough for my boy). But for now I drink them in every time I pull him close, and we stare at each other drunk on hormones, memorizing every contour of our faces.
He is a good baby, wide-eyed and stitch-browed when he gets to thinking too hard about the world around him. I’ve caught him smiling in his sleep. I can’t wait until he starts to do so when he’s awake.