So. Um. Hi.
I don’t even know where to begin. I’m not even sure I’m really ready to begin. You know what, let’s just start with a picture.
Yes. Paul is here. And while I’m trying to comprehend the enormity of him – his size, the responsibility, the relief, the emotions – I’m a big ol’ ball of selfish.
And I’m ok with that.
I can’t seem to share him. I keep stalling visitors, turning down offers of help. Rocco keeps begging for a chance to hold him. I can hardly stand putting him in his crib at night. It makes me panicked to let him out of my sight.
I don’t quite have my head on straight enough to tell you the tale of his arrival. Or about his week in the NICU. Not yet. I definitely couldn’t do it while it was happening. But I think I probably will. Eventually. Just as soon as I can put him down again without that overwhelming fear that they’ll take him away again.
Now that he’s home, it’s getting easier. I can sniff him whenever I want. No alarms go off when he yawns. He isn’t forever tethered to an outlet like a cellphone with a bad battery.
Now he’s mine. That’s starting to sink in. And it seems possible that he’ll be around indefinitely. So now I can just love him without fear of how much it would hurt if I had to stop.
Woof. This all sounds overly dramatic, doesn’t it? I’m sure it’s the hormones. And the sleep deprivation. And….
The takeaway though is that he’s home and safe and wonderful. I’m healing (sadly, without the aid of narcotics). And Rocco is over the moon.
But I’m still feeling a little selfish. So forgive me if I don’t get that story written right away. There’s a baby to smell, after all.
More stories later, but in the meantime, here’s another gratuitous photo. It’s motherfucking booze time AND mothersucking boob time. All at once. Yee haw.