Disbelief

I watch my mother balancing Westley across her lap, cuddling him close with his green blanket and the pacifier that he's not really interested in. He really wants to go to sleep, but I can't help him do it. Because I smell like milk. Because he wants to nurse and cuddle, but he's not hungry any more, and milk keeps coming out.

I'm struck by the weirdness of it. That is my mother holding my baby. A few months ago, I was just a daughter. I was the highest, newest branch on the family tree. But this tiny person is here now, and he's sent us all sliding down the branches.

***

Rob and I are lying on our giant bed, with Westley between us. He's naked and kicking around, laughing and shrieking as he stretches his limbs. I'm surprised to see muscle definition under his perfectly smooth skin. Babies are supposed to be soft and fragile, but he's more buff than I am.

"He's getting so big."

"I know. Can you believe that came out of your vagina?"

"Um, he was much smaller when he did."

"Yeah, well, but still."


***

There is a little person here, who wasn't here before. I should be used to this idea by now, but I'm not.

When Westley was brand new, I had to talk through his birth almost every day for several weeks. Mom and I would sit in the car or the living room and talk about what happened, and at least one of us would cry. "Well, it's over now," we'd say. "And he's here." Except that I didn't really believe it.

For several weeks, I didn't really believe that I'd had a baby. I hadn't really felt a connection to the life inside of me when I was pregnant, at least not in any "this is a human child, with a personality, and someday I will meet him or her" kind of way. I probably wouldn't have been all that surprised if, after giving birth, I'd been presented with a kitten, or an octopus, or a large potato bug. The baby who had suddenly appeared was a stranger, and I didn't really think of him as mine. Surely, someone had dropped him off, and would be back any day now to collect him.

***

Sometimes I'm surprised to realize that I'm not still pregnant.

***

He's less of a stranger now. He changes every day, but he's just a different (and heavier) version of himself. I think I'm starting to know his "self," which is the most unbelievable thing yet. This human baby, growing strong on magical mystery fluid from my body, is Westley. Easy-going and easily bored. A human consciousness for whom everything is new.

Wrapping my mind around it all is an exercise in faith. How is it possible that everything in my life is the same and completely different at the same time? How did my body produce and sustain a tiny human? Seriously, what the hell?

For now, I've given up on trying to believe it. I'm just accepting it.

....................................