When I look at your face, it’s hard to remember that there was ever a time I didn’t have it memorized. Your colorful eyes—brown, blue, and a little bit of gold—that completely light up in an instant. The dimple halfway up your left cheek. Your eight (and a half) tiny, little teeth.
A little over a year ago, I was in labor, and I remember that my most frequent thought was what you would look like. Would your have your daddy’s dark, thick hair? My blue eyes? You would certainly have our olive skin.
Roughly 30 hours later, I understood the most wonderful thing the moment I saw you: everything about you made perfect sense.
As I watch you grow and learn every day, I still can’t believe you’re mine. I can’t believe your dad and I get to kiss those cheeks every day and be on the receiving end of your giant hugs. I still can’t believe we get to squeeze your adorably chunky thighs and count your tiny, little toes. I will never understand why we are so lucky that we get to snuggle you in the rocker every night while we read your favorite books, like Jamberry and In The Night Kitchen.
Someday you’ll have a little brother or sister, and I’m sure this love I don’t think can ever grow will multiply. Amplify. Blow my mind.
Until then, I’ll spend countless hours a day staring at your long, thick eyelashes and watching you beam with pride when you finally try (and easily achieve) that new thing you’ve set your mind to. I’ll continue picking you up at random to squeeze you in my arms and tickle your tiny “Buddha belly” (as your daddy calls it).
I look at you and it amazes me every time that you were the one who gave me that first tiny kick at midnight while I watched “Dirty Dancing” and your dad was away at training, or that you were the one who got hiccups I could feel in my tummy every afternoon at 2pm.
The bigger you get, the harder it is to believe I carried you for 41 and a half weeks. And the more perfect I realize you are.
And I still can’t believe it was you.