I love babies. I absolutely, positively LOVE them. I want to watch them, to hold them, to look at their little features, fingers, toes.
I loved my own. To pieces. If I was holding him, there was an unstoppable force that drew my lips to his head. I had to smell him and kiss his face... I just had to. Constantly. That force is still strong. Mostly if he's sleeping, because he has now developed an aversion to being kissed on the face by his mom all day. Puhleeze.
There is something so incredibly natural about holding a baby to your body, about cradling it to your bosom. It's really the absolute most natural act for almost any person. Your breast (as a location, not anatomical objects) is where you breathe. It's where you love. It's where you experience the best and worst of life -- crushing love best, and crushing love worst.
My friend just had a baby. I spent most of her pregnancy with her, experiencing as much of her gestational joys as a supporter and bystander possibly can. This precious little girl was finally born, after making quite an entrance, I might add, and she is absolutely beautiful. I went to visit her in the hospital, and I wanted so terribly to hold and snuggle her. Except, when I picked her up, I realized that I was truly missing the soft place where she should fit. I didn't know how to hold her. Not to the right, not to the left. I had to awkwardly fumble this brand new baby like it was my first time, finally settling to place her on my lap.
For me, this is unimaginable! How could this be? What force could take this away? It's like Darth Vader showed up and waved that hard plastic glove, removing my mommy center.
I am not speaking of the physical. Not expanders, not scars. I am speaking of the palpable negative space that has replaced what was always my soft center. This was where I could hug a teddy bear, a friend, my husband, but most importantly my baby. This was where we fit. My heart's gravitational pull drew him in. This once familiar place has been replaced by an invisible fuzzy cavity that I can't really describe, but just exists, forming a barrier between me and everything.
Many women equivocate their breasts with their sexuality, their ability to nourish children, or some measure of beauty identity. Physically, it's the most superficial margin for your thoracic cavity, your heart chakra. It makes sense that there would be a period of adjustment for someone who now finds their heart that much closer to the outside world, unprotected.
When I tell my seven year old son that I love him, his reply is "I love you more." Where in the hell does he think he gets off loving me more? Of course, I explained to him that there is no way that he could physically love me more, because first of all I'm his mommy, and second of all, my heart is bigger. So there. "Not for long," was his reply. Well, watch out, NCS.. I'm going to give your sweet little heart a run for its money. This new vacuous field has given me room for my unprotected heart to grow and expand outward (if only I could take a deep breath.) Check out this cutie pie picture, while we're on the subject:
I still have to figure out how I'm going to hold that baby. I'm sure it will take some time, but until that day comes when I can snuggle her comfortably, I hope she's soft enough for both of us.
I loved my own. To pieces. If I was holding him, there was an unstoppable force that drew my lips to his head. I had to smell him and kiss his face... I just had to. Constantly. That force is still strong. Mostly if he's sleeping, because he has now developed an aversion to being kissed on the face by his mom all day. Puhleeze.
There is something so incredibly natural about holding a baby to your body, about cradling it to your bosom. It's really the absolute most natural act for almost any person. Your breast (as a location, not anatomical objects) is where you breathe. It's where you love. It's where you experience the best and worst of life -- crushing love best, and crushing love worst.
My friend just had a baby. I spent most of her pregnancy with her, experiencing as much of her gestational joys as a supporter and bystander possibly can. This precious little girl was finally born, after making quite an entrance, I might add, and she is absolutely beautiful. I went to visit her in the hospital, and I wanted so terribly to hold and snuggle her. Except, when I picked her up, I realized that I was truly missing the soft place where she should fit. I didn't know how to hold her. Not to the right, not to the left. I had to awkwardly fumble this brand new baby like it was my first time, finally settling to place her on my lap.
For me, this is unimaginable! How could this be? What force could take this away? It's like Darth Vader showed up and waved that hard plastic glove, removing my mommy center.
I am not speaking of the physical. Not expanders, not scars. I am speaking of the palpable negative space that has replaced what was always my soft center. This was where I could hug a teddy bear, a friend, my husband, but most importantly my baby. This was where we fit. My heart's gravitational pull drew him in. This once familiar place has been replaced by an invisible fuzzy cavity that I can't really describe, but just exists, forming a barrier between me and everything.
Many women equivocate their breasts with their sexuality, their ability to nourish children, or some measure of beauty identity. Physically, it's the most superficial margin for your thoracic cavity, your heart chakra. It makes sense that there would be a period of adjustment for someone who now finds their heart that much closer to the outside world, unprotected.
When I tell my seven year old son that I love him, his reply is "I love you more." Where in the hell does he think he gets off loving me more? Of course, I explained to him that there is no way that he could physically love me more, because first of all I'm his mommy, and second of all, my heart is bigger. So there. "Not for long," was his reply. Well, watch out, NCS.. I'm going to give your sweet little heart a run for its money. This new vacuous field has given me room for my unprotected heart to grow and expand outward (if only I could take a deep breath.) Check out this cutie pie picture, while we're on the subject:
I still have to figure out how I'm going to hold that baby. I'm sure it will take some time, but until that day comes when I can snuggle her comfortably, I hope she's soft enough for both of us.
There is so much strength, humor, wisdom and, best, raw emotion wrapped up here that makes this an incredible message for those going through the journey and for those of us out there that need that insight and can only hold your hand -- you bring it home Whit. Keep it Up.
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