The Baby in my Arms

It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, you can find me with a baby in my arms. 

He’s my last baby. 

I hold him longer than I’m supposed to. I squeeze him a bit tighter before I put him to bed at night. I spend most of my waking hours staring at his precious face, studying every perfect line, dimple and curve. I savor his scent and the sound of his giggles. 

I’ve mopped the floor holding this baby. I’ve washed the dishes holding this baby. I’ve cooked dinners, played games with my three year old and folded laundry holding this baby. I don’t remember what it’s like to eat with two hands, pee with two hands or clean with two hands. And yet, when he’s sleeping or playing by himself, I don’t know what to do with my two hands. 

Most nights I sleep with a baby on my chest. 

In between the outbursts of mourning my sleep I catch myself studying the details of his infancy: his peaceful cherub cheeks so soft and full; his fluttering dreamful eyelids; those pouty lips suckling in his sleep; his soft, peach fuzz hair. I place a soothing hand over his chest when I hear his breath quickening, followed by soft whimpers. It calms him and fills my heart all at once.

I gently trace his profile in an attempt to memorize this precious stage of life. As I run my index finger softly down the bridge of his nose and back up across his eyebrows, he twitches and coos in his slumber. There’s a gentle light from the salt lamp in our room. Many nights it illuminates the salty tracks of my tears. The despair and doubt and guilt of motherhood seeping from my body. I’m desperate for sleep. But I’m also wishing that nights like these could last forever. 

I remind myself that these nights only seem long. But somewhere in the sleeplessness of the night, time warps and bends and I swear hours are stolen a few minutes at a time. As I pine for sleep, the sand in the hour glass slips away and my sweet boy inches closer into toddler-hood. There will be a night where he won’t want me to hold him while he sleeps. And I’ll look back on these moments – a distant memory by then – and yearn for the warmth of his tiny body against mine. 

He’s my last baby. The last time I’ll ever sleep with a baby on my chest. The last time I’ll smell that familiar spoiled milk neck. The last time I’ll awake to the desperate cry for mid night nursing. The last time I’ll delicately fold tiny pieces of clothing. The last time I’ll watch a monitor for more hours than I sleep; obsessing over each segment of time that passes without movement; praying he’ll be safe all night without me.   

And even though I’m tired right down to my core, I’m not ready for this to be my last. I’m not ready to surrender my arms. What will I do with two free hands? So until I absolutely can’t do it anymore, you’ll find me, with a baby in my arms.