Mom-ing or bombing

Bringing Bryson Home

(Originally written: 04/20/12)

If ever there was a time in my life to be complacent, that time is now. 
I am sitting cross-legged (because it’s the only positon the stuffing I pushed between my legs and onto my delicate lady parts, will allow), on newly-shampooed-ivory carpet, adjacent a carrier that holds a human being. Not just any human being but one that was yanked from confinements of my never-before-now inhabited uterus almost two weeks ago. I’m staring at him, with a hint of a grin and tear stained cheeks and to be honest a rather absent and airy mind. In this moment there is little room left for thoughts beyond pure contentment for the situation.

 He’s just looked up to find the purple and orange plastic keys attached to the handle of his already-wiped-down-three-times-with-clorox-wipes-but-this-is-the-first-time-it’s-been-used carrier. He doesn’t smile. Apparently that’s a task requiring more brain cells than he has currently developed. But, he does look. I know he sees them. I imagine he also sees me when the direction his enormous bright blue eyes are in shifts. He almost appears startled, which ignites somewhat of a giggle in my soul.

“We areally finally home, buddy.” He can hear me and understand me as well. I know he can.

The handle of his carrier is clicked into place and I fumble with the buckles enough they’ll come undone. 

He’s delicate blue eyes stare up at me, shielded by dark eye lashes. He has a small crease just below his nostrils that I can’t help but to run my finger across. Ten little toes, as I wiggle the biggest on his right between my fingers. 

I lift him from the carrier and coddle him next to my chest. Staring down into his tiny, soft face, I can’t muster a thought more prominent than “He’s perfect.”

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