He fits.
As they grow older they stretch. They become more of their own and less of you.
He’s no longer all squish. He has started to lean out. And still, he fits on my chest like he’s part of me. Like a puzzle piece that I didn’t know I was missing.
I’m thinking about this because I know our time for tiny baby snuggles is limited. Sleep routines are changing, as daddy takes the baby and I’m now snuggling with the older one for bedtime. The older one, who I remember nursing and rocking and having the same thought — being so taken by how well he fit. On my chest, in my arms, it’s like he melted into me.
So I’m making mental imprints, as this growing baby begins to sleep more independently. (Thankfully.) His nasally breathing. His slightly open pouty mouth. His chubby hand dropped onto my arm. His legs curled up into my lap. His sweaty head. How dark his closed eyes look when he’s just succumbed to the sweet relief of sleep. The accessibility of his fuzzy head, just starting to finally fill in with hair, to slowly nuzzle with my cheek. The sense of unhurried peace, because there’s no better excuse to sit and stay for a while than a baby sleeping soundly on your chest.
So familiar yet so new. A part of me, yet not at all. How could something I grew be so foreign?
He’s a package, a pod. A nugget. A heavy lump of sleeping baby and light as a feather when picked up from a long nap — both weights surprise you every time. “You’re getting so big” will be uttered almost daily from birth until…I don’t know when because I haven’t made it to the end yet.
It’s scary to have a baby. The unknowns can be overwhelming. But through the what-ifs and anxieties, a fierce confidence also arises. There was space in your soul to care for this human all along. He fits.
