He is breathless with crying. Wailing with out punctuations, paragraphs of pathos, out. His first ever. And, though on autopilot, I coo and try to sooth; trying and failing miserably in protecting him from the pain. I watch, the mommy me, being a bundle of nerves; inching towards a colossal meltdown.
Giving birth is perhaps the single bravest thing on this planet. Putting your heart for the entire world to tread on; isn’t easy. Nirvaan is 6 weeks old. And, the world has already begun to plague him with pain. Vaccinations!
I feel a lump at the back of my throat when I write those words. When I think of him, the space inside my ribcage hardly feels big enough to contain the feeling I have for him: like a thousand rainbow helium balloons all lifting, lifting skyward.
I want to record every moment with him because every one is fleeting, but I haven’t. There are a few pictures, yes, and only a few quickly scribbled notes here and there that mark the passing of his babyhood —because the truth is this: I am greedy with my time with him.
I want the smell of him forever: soft, inexplicably sweet; the essence of these baby days when we’re curled together in the morning before the world wakes up and the day begins. I want to be able to forever feel the roundness of his soft darling belly, like a little fat moon when he stretches out.
This has been the gift of my son. He has allowed me to slow down and linger in these moments of early motherhood. I curl around him after I’ve scooped him up from a nap.
He nurses, then grins up or frowns and smacks his lips with satisfaction and I whisper to him, leaning close until my lips brush his babysoft cheek. I whisper about how I love him until he falls back asleep for a few perfect moments, a smile playing on his lips.
I have learned that the laundry can wait, and that the dishes and bowls and pots in the sink will return to their state of clean or dirty regardless of whether I do them first, or often, or last. What matters most are kisses.
He hardly cries or fusses, except when he is really hungry and he has given enough cry-less communications.
He is a thinker really. A deep faraway look in his eyes. Eyes which are dark and brooding, eyes with a midnight blue ring around his irises.
He sleeps for a while and when the pain sears through, a huge cry escapes. This intermittent sleep helps apart from his fav music – my heartbeat.