You’ve grown up, my baby. And yet you’re still so small. Today you’re nine months old, and I can’t help but notice that’s the same amount of time you spent warm and snug inside my belly.
I can’t hold you snug in your little blanket anymore, pressed against my heart like before. You don’t want that anymore. You want to crawl around, you want to see things, you want to touch everything. It’s normal—I know—but I’d love so much to go back to the time when our whole world—yours and mine—was in the same place: inside my belly.
You were my baby, all mine. I know it’s selfish to think that way, but I miss my baby bump. That beautiful, big, round balloon that I carried so proudly. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. You’re my last baby—I knew it was the last time—but today, I really miss being pregnant.
I miss the way people looked at that beautiful round belly. I miss the ultrasounds, where we’d discover you with such emotion. I miss the doctor’s appointments, where I’d listen closely to your little heartbeat. I miss the little ripples in my belly, letting me know you were very much alive. I miss the strong kicks and the slightly less gentle movements toward the end of my pregnancy. I miss counting down the days until I could finally meet you. I miss the nights when I’d stroke my big belly, imagining what you’d look like.
I miss feeling beautiful, despite my curves. I miss the maternity photo shoots where I was the star and didn’t mind at all being in the spotlight. I miss your dad’s hands, gently caressing my belly in the hope that you’d respond with a little movement.
I miss the moment when, after getting your room ready, I sat down in the rocking chair, thinking how wonderful it would be when you were in my arms. And tonight, you’re in my arms. It really is wonderful. But I’d give anything for just one more day of those precious moments spent with you in my belly, your little head pressed against my heart.