I’m a cliché, watching my son sleep. His head is lilted back; mouth set in a pout, and his arm thrown up in surrender to sleep. I’m watching, and loving, and I can stand here all day perched at the edge of his crib. I can describe what I’m feeling: an overwhelming, crushing sensation of emotion that almost hurts, but it’s so beautiful and tender, and just let myself bathe in it; I can’t explain it though.
I thought when I got married that I experienced and found a new definition to love. And that love made sense, the give, the take, the give. But it seems motherhood has its own definition and depth and length of love, and there is no defying it, cultivating it, nurturing it, it just is. Eternal.
I stand here a little longer, gazing intently at my son. He stirs and I jump. But then he’s restful again, and I breathe. I break my connection, and slowly leave the room, turning back just once more before I leave.
Picking up the phone, I dial the familiar numbers it seems for the umpteenth time today.
“Hello?” a rushed voice answers.
“I never knew how much you love me, Ma” I reply.