daggers in your heart for your own good




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.

CpRyt@NeerS

3 comments:

666 said...

Happy Parenting :-) and very nice name for the boy. Hope he has inherited the good traits from your side he he. Cheerio

Kafo said...

beauty in it's simplicity

take it one step and one memory at a time and chronicle it ooooooooooooo

Priya said...

Enjoy every moment of it and treasure it.