-John Greene, The Fault in Our Stars
Each day with BB, the intensity of my love increases.
For a multitude of reasons (previous losses, depression, sheer exhaustion), it wasn't the instantaneous, overwhelming love that I expected. It started slowly, a trickle rather than a gush. Little droplets of love, collecting over time, until one day, I looked at him and my heart just overflowed.
It's been almost four months and absolutely nothing is the way it was before.
My days right now are slippery, almost ghostlike, in their quiet, comforting, sameness. The haze of bottles and lullabies and rocking chairs and naps is punctuated by moments of sharp joy, moments that I seize onto and try to sear into my memory. His smile, his laugh. The way he wraps his hand around my fingers, stroking them gently as he falls asleep. His smell, an intoxicating blend of detergent and formula and sweat. The weight of his head on my arm as he curls his tiny body up against mine in the dark.
Each of these moments is a victory, a reminder that we survived. Despite setbacks and loss and broken hearts, somehow we found the courage to keep putting one foot in front of the other. To keep trying, even when Hope was so far away we could barely recognize her. Each of these moments brings a little more healing to my bruised and battered spirit.
I'm in love in a way that I only dreamed was possible.
Wholly.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
Infertility and loss changed me, fundamentally.
And now, so has motherhood.
The love I always dreamed of is mine to claim, to hold onto and never, ever forget how very lucky we really are.
