Now I have given birth to my third daughter, Ruby Grace, and my enchantment with "firsts" has evolved into a terror of "lasts." After the initial shock and ecstasy of giving birth, I sat in my peaceful hospital bed, listened to the cicadas celebrating spring after months of grey skies, and could not hold back my tears as I realized that this would most likely be the last time I would ever be the mother of a newborn. I pressed my fists against my eye sockets, trying to stop the flow, but nothing seemed capable of easing my hormone-induced sadness. I kissed Ruby's head, drowning in the sweetness of her scent, and realized that if I didn't relish all of this right now, I would never have another chance.
When my youngest daughter smiled for the first time, there was no relief that we could check another item off in the baby book; this time, there was a smile that glowed with such innocent radiance that I couldn't tear myself away long enough to record the achievement. With this baby, I am not as quick to grab a camera as I am to revel in these moments of joyful accomplishment. My baby has me mesmerized, entranced. I have belatedly learned that her triumphs are not a reflection of my dazzling parenting skills; they are gentle reminders that she is, in her own way, developing the ability to flourish away from the constant attentions of her mother.
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