letters to my roo

We spent the morning swaying, patting, rocking, singing. You sucked your hand. I stumbled over Spanish words, because you’ve told me that Mercedes Sosa is the singer that calms you, and I’m determined to learn every word — not only to sing it to you, but to explain it to you one day.

Maybe that will be Poppy’s job.

Outside, your dad mowed the lawn, a soft hum up and down, past the window to your room, the one you don’t sleep in yet. He passed the window to our room, the one we three share, the one where you and I are curled up together. Your body is relaxed, asleep, one hand splayed on my belly. You’re smiling in your sleep. When I look down at you, I see the linea trailing down my belly, a reminder of when you and I were always, always together.

You stir slightly. One eye threatens to open, and your hand presses into the softness of my belly, another reminder of you growing in me. And that reassurance that I’m still there sends you back to a deep sleep, one with a shuddering peacefulness. It still amazes me that me being near to you brings you calm. That for you, I am everything. I don’t feel it, I mostly feel overwhelmed, like I’m not sure how to raise you, but you look at me like I do. And I am so, so proud to be your mother. When I think of it, of that insane blessing, it makes me cry. I had a coworker once who told me that when I had children, I would realise nothing else matters. She was right.

I’ve handed you to your daddy now. I’m going to go get us food and a rocking chair for late nights.