Perspective

Before I had Emmy, I envisioned rocking my baby to sleep in a clean, dim nursery where she would slowly doze off and then I'd set her in the crib for the night and everything would be peaceful and perfect and blissful.

I'm currently in my messy bedroom, bouncing on a yoga ball with a baby basically swaddled in a straight jacket, binky in her mouth, humming "Give Said the Little Stream" loudly because, well, that's what works. My back hurts. Her eyes are still open, but she's not crying. Eventually she'll drift off, but when? I never know.

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I read a story online today about a woman that tragically lost her newborn son. He was only a few weeks old. It was an accident, maybe one that could have been prevented, but the sadness and guilt and heartache that mother must be feeling? I can't even imagine it. In fact, I try to avoid imagining it because having this baby has made my heart open and raw in ways I never thought possible, and it causes to much sadness to imagine something like that.

So, I sit here bouncing. Staring back at my baby girl with a tear in my eye, feeling so grateful to even have a baby to bounce. I'm going to squeeze her tighter, give her a few extra kisses, and bounce her, and bounce her, and bounce her.

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My back hurts. Her eyes are still open, but she's not crying. Eventually she'll drift off, but when? I never know. But I wouldn't have it any other way.