You Still Fit

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When you were born, the nurse placed you right on my chest. It was the first time my baby hadn't been immediately taken away for a bath or to be poked or checked. I was told I could hold you there for as long as I wanted to, so I did. We didn't move until a small emergency forced me to hand you back to the nurse. I sat there as the nurse worked to get my body to do what it needed to do, and stared across the room at the tiny bassinet where they laid you. All I could see were your feet kicking up in the air- a part of me removed. It felt unnatural. I needed to be with you.

When you were eleven months old, I sat cross-legged in the chair in your nursery and rocked you as you nursed. My body felt big in the wrong places and heavier and uncomfortable- but you fit with it. Your head rested on my arm and leaned into my chest, and your body laid comfortably across my lap. Sometimes you fell asleep like that- across my legs- and I would try not to wake you as I reached for food or something to read. I remember thinking, I was made for you, and you were made for me. As you got older, I knew you would still fit, just like your brothers did. I would never be as I was before and that was okay. I wasn't for me anymore, I was for you. When you were finished nursing that day, I stood to walk out, with you in my arms, and my hand was guided to a small bump in my chest.

That first surgery changed me the most. The spot where your head laid was gone. Instead of softness and warmth, there was bone and cold skin. My arm to cradle you was weaker. My medicine made me skinny and tired. Your dad and grandma brought you to me in my bed, but you didn't fit the same. I winced when you leaned on me and you shifted and turned. Instead, we sat- side by side and read or watched movies.

I tried to forget about fitting. Forget about holding you the same or feeling you sink in to me like you did before. You fit with your dad and I watched as your once-standby comfort became your primary. I laid next to you in the middle of the night- your dad on the other side- and watched you roll to him- situate yourself with a sleepy yawn and close your eyes, inches away from his face; feet away from mine.

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There are still times I have to remind myself that I didn't miss something with you. Of all the making up for times I lost, the hardest was making up to you. Your brothers were older and attached to me in more ways than one. Most of those strings were easy to keep tied. But you- you couldn't talk, couldn't write, couldn't even walk at the beginning of everything, and I struggled to find myself with you for so many months. I didn't know what to be to you when I couldn't carry you on my hip or nurse you through the night. I felt like I owed you something I had missed. That in some way, I needed to pay recompense. I knew I never could, so in quiet moments I tried to bargain a false state of mind where I really did carry you so much that I didn't even notice you were in my arms. I nursed you while I stirred dinner on the stove and walked up the stairs, like I had your brothers. You had been in my arms since the time you took your first breath, so much in fact that you felt like such a part of me that I accidentally banged your head on the wall, rushing around a corner. I pretended all that and tried to feel what I thought I should but it never worked.

I have never written about this because it felt shameful and unnatural. I was proud that I didn't have much of an adjustment to life after cancer, but the truth was, the biggest adjustment was the one I was most sad to admit. About a year ago, dad and I started taking turns putting you to bed. For so long, I kissed you goodnight and left as dad lingered next to you. Too many times, I had been the one lingering and you cried for your dad and I had to go get him. But a year ago, you stopped calling for dad. Sometimes it still felt fragile. There would be nights you wanted us both. Some nights I laid with you and was frustrated that I couldn't get comfortable next to you. I couldn't lift my arm all the way or be soft enough for you. But as time went on, you found a new spot. We fit differently, but we fit. 

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A couple weeks ago, we were on the couch late at night. Your mouth on my nose, forehead-to-forehead with your arm around my neck. I didn't wonder if you wanted dad or try to move you so you were more comfortable. I didn't offer to watch a movie with you or read you a book to avoid you wiggling out of my arms and across the couch instead. It was just us on the couch falling asleep. Most nights you call my name from your bed, even though I've kissed you two times. You scoot to my lap during family prayer. You reach for me at the top of our stairs. I don't know what changed, maybe a little you, but mostly me. I thought I couldn't miss a beat with you. If I did, our songs would be forever different. We would hum different tunes and dance to different beats. Really though, we always had the same song. 

When they put you on my chest the day you were born, I showed you how to be mine- how to eat, how to be warm, how to fall asleep. I swaddled you and carried you even before you took a breath. But after I changed, you learned to scoot closer and wrap your arm around my neck. You put your lips against my nose, you faced me and reached for me and laid your head on my lap. You showed me how to be yours- how to close the gap, pay the recompense, adjust and fit again.