The moon is halfway through the sky and I am alone when they bring her to me and I'm glad. She is joy bundled in flannely white with end stripes in pink and blue. I smile to think she looks like an ice cream cone–swaddled tightly with the space beyond her feet forming a perfect point, her entire body shrouded from view, except that face…that perfectly scooped face…downy hair, rosy skin, and delicate features exquisitely formed.
I'm gazing through Mother eyes for the first time, and I learn we all wear rose-colored glasses, seeing miracle delivered from our own body. It's in those moments I wonder how anyone could believe there is no God.
How is it possible for doubt to ever creep in again? But it will.
I take her and nuzzle her body against mine. Love is thicker than oxygen and I inhale deeply and breathe out the same. She is brilliant, destined for great things, because…
she instinctively nurses. The first delusion of a parent–that their ordinary child is extraordinary–coaxes a secret smile because I realize she's driven me mad in hours and I am now grizzly mama, ready to protect her with my life.
Her dark eyes blink awake, once…twice…three times, and I spin with fizzy affections. I hold her to my breast and her tiny tongue darts out, feeling her own lips in question, then latching on to me for life. I marvel at this provision and privilege; another miracle that no one seems to acknowledge as such, at least not to my satisfaction. It makes me want to shake people to their senses.
This is a picture carved into my heart. It is forever memory, the good kind, life lived in moments too important to forget.
She graduates in 58 days.