When we’re browsing the “Internet,” scrolling through our Facebook news feed, peeking in on the neighbors, or even when we’re grocery shopping, we see love everywhere. Two teens at the mall making out and whispering “I love you” forever, best friends taking a selfie in the bathroom, an elderly man holding his wife’s weathered hand with all his frail strength, or even kittens purring behind the glass at the pet store. Even though the world isn’t exactly perfect in this fast-paced, far-reaching, and intense world, I can still see a lot of “love” being shared for real—through my cell phone, TV, radio, and even where you least expect it. There’s the love of friendship, romantic love, the love of food, and family hugs. There’s love that lasts forever and love from days gone by. White love, black love, and blind love. Love for pets, for our mother, for our father, and for others. We love men, women, or both. And love is beautiful—not always rosy, but it makes us proud, it makes us strong, and it gives our hearts that little nudge to keep moving forward through the fog of the modern world. I’m lucky to be in love, to love, and to be loved.
And then, just recently, I felt the urge to share a big part of myself. I had an overflow of love. I felt strong enough, proud enough to bring you into the world. I wanted to love those tiny toes, that golden hair, and those bright blue eyes. When I realized I was creating the greatest adventure I’d ever get to experience, I was so excited. Whenever I asked for advice, people kept telling me that I was finally going to experience true love—the kind that gets under your skin, right down to your bones; the kind that never lets you down, never betrays you, and never leaves; the kind that lasts and pushes you just a little further each time.
I couldn’t wait—I wasn’t even afraid. I chose your name; I talked to you and rocked you through my round belly. I slept very little, I threw up, and I was tired. I didn’t care, because I knew that soon, I was going to be your mom, your precious one, your love. Late at night, I felt pain; you signaled to me—the moment was approaching. I was ready. Eager. I had a strength far greater than I ever could have imagined. Dad was cheering us on; I focused, and I watched the time go by.
“Are you on your way, little treasure? Why is it taking so long, why is it so hard?”
I’m breathing, pushing, and working for both of us—I swear to you. This wasn’t how I’d imagined meeting you.
“Keep breathing, please, don’t give up. We’re a rock-solid team. I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I gave it my all, my love—I did more than I possibly could.”
We’ll do it another way. We’ll go get you, from the nest I made for you. They reassure me, they promise me I’ll hear your cries. I can’t hear a thing; I’m lost in my own thoughts, completely lost and impatient. I wait. And then your cries take me by surprise. My baby is here, not far away, behind the blue sheet. I smile. They present your little red and purple head to me, wrapped in a bundle of white sheets. I don’t cry, I don’t laugh, I don’t move. You and Dad leave the room quickly. I stay there, lying down. The bright spotlights illuminate the instruments, the cold stainless steel, and the tiled ceiling. The minutes pass. When they carry my body into another room—just as cold, pale, and sad—I feel empty. No more little feet kicking in my belly to remind me of your presence. They make me wait. For a long time—too long. I can’t even remember the features of your face anymore. We’ve been apart for hours. Finally! They wheel my bed into my room. I’m scared. For the first time since last night, I cry. This is the final stretch. Mom arrives.
There you are, so tiny, so little. You’re so beautiful, so fragile, yet so strong. You were waiting for me. They place you on my body; we’re naked and become one. I look at you. Over the next few hours, we get to know each other. And I search, deep inside myself, for what all the mothers promised me: that overwhelming, unconditional love a mother has for her child.
I can’t find it.
Of course, I’m proud of our team, of our work—that we succeeded despite all the obstacles—but I just can’t feel it. You’re wearing a tiny bracelet that says you’re my son, my precious one, but I can’t bring myself to feel it.
I blame myself.
I didn’t fall in love at first sight with you, my baby.
Forgive me.
After four long days in this hospital, with no privacy, no sense of normalcy, I can finally take you home. And I really hope that once we’re there, we’ll build the most beautiful love story together. You know, my angel, I didn’t fall in love at first sight with your dad. I got to know him and learned to love him. I promise you that the two of us will have something more beautiful than anything else. I have so much love inside me.
My dear baby, I understand now that in the turmoil of your birth, I let myself down. I’m the strong woman, the confident girl, the proud one. I was ready; I was good. I didn’t fail, but I’d imagined a different ending. I blamed myself. I had nightmares about it for months. I racked my brain trying to understand instead of letting my heart connect with yours.
I’m sorry, my little wolf.
Now, you’re the most beloved little being in the whole world. I’d fight an entire army to protect you. I promise you, my little baby, that I love you more than anything. It’s true that the love we feel for our child is unreal, magnificent, and pure. Forgive me, my baby, for not having fallen in love at first sight. Listen to me, look through my eyes, and see your mom’s heart. Your name is engraved there, and our love story is just beginning.
I love you!