His name is Elliott, and he is my heart’s desire.
When my own mama was young, younger than I am now, she prayed for her “heart’s desire,” and from that dream, I was born. She’d tell me this with something I didn’t understand shining in her eyes.
I understand now.
His birth story is a tale for another day. It was long… Long, long, long, and I haven’t really spent much time thinking about it. I’ve heard my husband refer to the experience as “traumatic.”
When I think of how the midwives, nurses, and doulas around us treated me with such tender affection, how they cared for me with red-rimmed eyes, how they would pause and rest their foreheads on my knee, or hold my hand, or stroke my face, I know it must be true.
It was nothing I imagined, nothing I would have chosen, but in the end, I have my Elliott nestled against my chest as I type this. And this end, of course, eclipses the means.
My boy is 10 days old now. Our days are filled with change… diaper changes and life changes.
If I’m not feeding him, I’m getting ready to. If I’m not holding him, I’m wishing I was.
He is the last thought before I fall asleep, the first when I wake.
Sunrise, sunset. It sometimes feels like we have opened our eyes on a different planet, where circadian rhythm takes a pause, where time slows or speeds depending on the whim of a tiny human, who directs this house without even the need for language.
He is amazing, and of course, of course I’m not biased.
For a few days, I carried him on one shoulder and an unshakeable bundle of sadness on the other. Yesterday, those baby blues lifted, as though they were never there at all, and since, I’ve felt shiny and new. I’m grateful for that.
I’m grateful for so many things.