My Time Belongs To Both Of Us

What do you think?

My side is uncomfortable. My back cuts off umbilical blood flow. Lying on my stomach is out of the question as it would be like trying to balance on a bowling ball. At eight months pregnant, I spend sleepless nights, wide awake and dreaming about the color of your hair, about whether or not your smile will look like mine, as the acid in my chest burns holes, simultaneously being startled and soothed my your gentle kicks.

It’s OK, baby, you can take my time.

In my arms, at my breast, nursing every two hours around the clock. You scream, and I fumble a nipple shield. Your latch isn’t perfect, and I’m a simple, first-time mom. 3 a.m. sees every tear, every ounce of frustration in both of us as we both cry, learning this dance of mother and son. You settle, tummy finally full, with sleepy dream smiles, in my arms. I watch you, breathe in your smell, wipe the tears from my eyes.

You’re all mine. Baby, you can take my time.

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