But four hours old.

My eyes begin to open, blinking through the blur, craving more sleep but forced open by anticipation.

You were but four hours old.

It had been a long 36 hours since first admitted to hospital and now as I see 4-something-AM blink back at me, your exhausted Daddy sleeping in the armchair to my left and you, in your bassinet to my right, I wonder if any of this was real.

The feeling was so new and exhilarating. The rush of absolute, unconditional love. You were an extension of my heart. No, you WERE my heart.

My tired eyes, staring at your open eyes, staring back at me. Your eyes were glazed, as if still adjusting to the light of the Earth, but you held my stare perfectly.

It was as if you had willed me awake to answer your questions. What am I doing here? Why is it so loud? And why isn’t it as warm as before?

I told you, soul to soul, that I would keep you as warm as I could, I would quiet the noise for you and I would always, always be your safe space.

I felt myself drifting off again, but was shortly woken by your sweet little cry. I reached out and moved your bassinet, just enough for you to feel a rocking sensation and you instantly stopped crying. Did I do that? How could I possibly know what I am doing? Who will show me everything else? How will I protect you from all harm? The questions were endless and my emotions would leap from joy to concern back to pure elation. The beginning of the emotional rollercoaster I hear they call motherhood.

I sometimes fear that the memory and knowing we felt in those moments will become fuzzy or even disappear over time. But how can it? Our souls spoke to each other in the most beautiful way and the soul never forgets.

You weren’t the only newborn in the room. I was reborn as a mother the moment you arrived and blessed our lives.

I am strapped in and ready for everything we will experience and teach each other along this journey.

Thank you for choosing me and changing my life in every possible, wonderful way.

Written by: © Writing to Breathe