Sometimes, when I look at you, I can hardly remember what it was like to hold you in my arms. Not hold you in the way that I do today, with your arms wrapped around my neck and your legs around my waist — struggling at some points to keep you hoisted up. Instead, it’s hard for me to remember the way that it used to be, where I could hold you with one arm against my body and rock you effortlessly.
Sometimes, when I look at you, I forget what those moments in the NICU were like. The ones where I constantly Googled what diseases or ailments you could end up with several years down the road. The ones where I wondered and worried about your future. Now that we’re here, it feels like a lifetime ago you were screaming in your incubator while I stood on the other side of the glass, helpless.
Sometimes, when I look at you, I can’t see how little you still are compared to your big personality — until I see other kids your age at the park or at school. I realize in those moment that you are still tiny in size despite the boldness you show with every personal interaction.
Sometimes, when I look at you, I forget that I didn’t carry you. That you are not my blood. Not out of disrespect for your birth mother (whom we love dearly and who is always on our minds), but out of simple realization that you are very much like us. That you were made for this family, and that I can’t imagine having another child — a different child — who isn’t you.
But every time, when I look at you, I feel alive. It doesn’t matter what’s happened that day or that week. Nothing else matters but you. Nothing else matters but being your mom and loving you with all of my heart.
There is never a moment where I forget this.