I sobbed when I put my perfect 9 1/2 week old to bed tonight. I sobbed yesterday when I realized that next week someone else will probably be feeding him his first morning bottle. I am a wreck. That is my new definition of self. Returning to work means I will miss out on 11 hours (give or take) a day of my son's life. Another woman will see my son roll over for the first time, crawl, walk. She will most likely hear his first official word and there will come the time that he will accidentally call her Mom (and rip my heart out).
The only comfort I find in this whole situation is that my son knows me completely. He is mine. His smile is brightest when he sees me, he talks the most to me, his eyes light up for me. When I feed him his bottles it is like looking in a mirror. That little boy is my heart and soul encased in a perfect 12 pound vessel.
Next week will be hard. So will the weeks that follow. I hope I will adjust. I will adjust... won't I?
|Not actually my son's foot, but still pretty precious. His would be more breathtaking, but then I am slightly biased, but not really because that is a true statement right there.|