Being Brave

So I've been reading HBM for, I dunno, 3 months now? and I finally made it back to this post, which (in BRIEF) extols mommy-baby love, particularly physical love, and requests that bloggers join her in posting about it, at the risk of being taken the wrong way.

I feel very brave making this post, since I'm so new to blogging and I do it so rarely that nobody stumbling onto this page knows me well enough to be sure to "take it the right way." Of course, nobody stumbling onto this page even knows my last name, so I suppose I shouldn't be too paranoid, right?

My son, my firstborn, is irresistible. His hair, just like his daddy's, is ALWAYS mussed when he wakes up, is downy-soft, is just barely long enough for me to rake with my fingers into a goofy side-swept 'do. After a bath, it is freshly fluffy but neat.

Thanks to our friend Jenny, who introduced us to the BEST baby wash, he also smells wonderful. Studies show that babies prefer the smell of their own mothers, and are comforted by items that smell like their mothers; the smells I associate with my Kibwana comfort me. It's a similar sensation to curling up by a fire, or in a soft fuzzy robe or blanket, or a comfy bed: one whiff of his scent warms me, causes my heart to swell and makes me relax - usually. Other times, my body is overwhelmed with the need-urge to go get him and bury my face in his neck.

Honestly, it is a similar drive to the pull of lust, in terms of how it works, just not in motivation. A thought, a smell, seeing him dozing angelically, seeing his little face screw up in disappointment when I have to put him down in the playpen to get housework done -- any one of those things causes the emotional swell, ache, craving, urge, desire to go to him, to scoop him up and rest my forehead on his temple, to kiss the rolled edge of his ear, to nuzzle my nose down on the edge of his jaw and neck, feeling his still-perfect, petal-soft skin on my nose, my lips.

In the womb, for the entire last trimester, Kibwana was upside-down, nestled into the crook of my hip bone. After he was born, he has continued to enjoy snuggling the top of his head up against things, whether it's scooting forward in his sleep until he reached the crib bumper or being held to my chest with my chin resting on his crown. A confession: I've been a little disappointed that his fontanelle is closing up because I always liked to think of it as a little divot for my chin.*

When he is giving in to sleep, he has often made a little scratching motion with his free hand (palm on a surface, curling the fingertips in and then flattening them again). When he's up under my chin, his hand just below my collarbone, that scratching seems like he's grasping for me, or perhaps trying to pull himself in a little closer. Lately, he has been leaving his whole hand flat and simply moving it back and forth, rubbing (seems like patting) across my chest. Is he really just comforting himself with the feel of my warmth (and/or the texture of whatever I'm wearing) or is there some part of his soul that instinctively knows how to reach out and express love, trying to please or comfort me?

When I rock him to sleep, it feels like we were made from two halves of the same mold, we fit together so well. There are times I've actually wondered if he really is totally comfortable being rocked by Daddy because, really, how could they possibly fit together so well as we do? I scold myself for thinking it but if I am honest, one of the reasons I wanted a child was that after so, so many years of being the favorite babysitter - in other words, always second (or third) best - I would finally be THE one some child wanted more than anyone else.

I'm afraid I am going to spoil him by holding him too much, not because he is so needy but because I am. I want to hold him all the time, to pick him up every time he is sad not just for peace and quiet but because of the pride and pleasure I take in knowing that I bring him comfort and pleasure. Because I love his little baby smell and the feel of his fluffy hair on my face and the look of sheer joy and wonder that Mommy is holding again and isn't this FUN?

Even when he is content to play by himself, and I have other things to accomplish, there are times that I just have to stand in the doorway and watch him. I develop mommy-tourette's whenever I've got him around other people: I can't resist the urge to blurt out "look at the baby!" For some reason that completely eludes me, I am inexplicably, chest-burstingly proud of the little guy. It baffles me! It's true that I can claim pride in him because "I (we) made that," but it's not like the process required specialized skills on my part.

And pride in his accomplishments is a little baffling, too. I suppose I can claim that I have been raising him, so if he proceeds in his development, learns something, I was basically the one that taught it to him... but even so. When he learns a new skill, pride bubbles up as if I was the one grasping the Cheerio in my pincer grip or stopping in mid-stride to stoop and pick up a dropped paci before heaving back up (without falling!) and continuing on my way.

I love his little teeth (one fang!) and the fat little fingers and the way his laugh sounds. I love showing him something new and seeing the amazement on his face. I love the way his new pajamas look on him and I even like the little jar of shock I get whenever I look at him from a certain angle and see my little brother, or my dad, or my grandpa. I do feel a little guilty that he looks so much like everyone on my side of the family and not discernably like Col at all... but we can both agree that he is gorgeous, that he is clever, that he is such a good baby that we should be the envy of the whole world.

I got the best baby that I could have ever possibly gotten, and I know it, and am glad.

Mom!!! You're embarassing me!!

*P.S. No, I did not poke my child in the brain with my chin.