This morning all three of us are lounging in bed, recovering from a big family wedding weekend. Lincoln pretty much didn’t nap at all yesterday, so we’re trying to give him as much time as possible to catch up on those zzz’s.
He sleeps really well in our bed in the mornings, and even though I’m squished on the edge, unable to really move, and constantly checking him to make sure he didn’t move his face into a pillow or flip over on his tummy, I really love these times he’s sleeping peacefully between us.
During mornings like these is when I really get a chance to look at him, and it hits me all over again that this is my baby. I made this baby. He’s got my nose and, according to Chris’ uncle Ron, my smile. He lights up when he sees me, and has conversations with me, and strokes my face at night as he’s falling asleep.
People say once you have a baby, it’s so easy to forget the hard part of bringing them into the world. Man, is that true. I barely remember being pregnant–was I really pregnant twice as long as Lincoln’s been with us? And his birth… I remember it, but I also feel removed from it at this point, like it didn’t really happen to me. Even the first week home, which was pretty bad emotionally and physically for me, is hard to really feel now. I remember it, but I can’t really conjure up how it felt.
Being a mother is kind of weird like that. (And also, it just hit me all over again that I’m a mother. What?) Maybe I’m just an overly reflective person. Or maybe I just like this baby so much my mind is willing to shut off those other memories.
I mean, he is