Because I want to remember

I'm not sure that anyone else would ever be interested in this list, except, perhaps women who may also wish they could remember. These are things I never want to forget, but know that I will:

The feel of my slimy baby as they put him on my belly after his birth, that moment when he squirms on the outside of me, all slippery, and I reach down to hold him, so that he won't slide right off. So tiny, skinny, warm.

The first time he eats, he knows just what to do, though actual skill is not there yet. And he calms. Exactly as he's been designed to do.

The way his feet are completely soft, no calluses, yet.

Probably my favorite thing about a newborn, the way he opens his mouth to catch me when I kiss his cheeks. He shakes his head back and forth like a baby bird. I always miss it when they grow out of that.

The way he stops, mid panicked-cry or frustrated grunt, when he latches on to eat. As though the angst never happened.

His body, curled tight, his feet pressed against his shins.  At two and a half weeks, he's already beginning to stretch out and relax.

When I lift him in his sleep, and he arches backward, with his tiny fists pressed against his cheeks and his lips pursed, knees pulled up high. The tiny grunts and groans at the unfairness of being moved.

We swaddle him, and he takes two ragged breaths, then calms.

The way, those first few days, he looked so much like his big brothers, I would forget who I was looking at.

The songs that play in my mind whenever i hold him, Beautiful Boy by John Lennon, Love You Up to the Moon by Kim Hill and the Christmas song, Sweet Little Jesus Boy.

A conversation with the big kids before he was born, as I waddled around the Yukon to our front door, about how Mary would have felt, sitting on a donkey for days, how long it took to travel, how she could not have walked, and the impatience at the end of a pregnancy.

His absolute assurance that my body exists to meet his needs, and my occasional sadness for babies whose needs are not met.

How his eyes sometimes cross when he tries to focus on things.

The peace and absolute contentment when he falls asleep curled against me. So tiny. And he knows he belongs there.


His breath. He has the most beautiful, sweet-smelling breath.

Every once in a while I catch glimpses of the expression that will become his smile. It's thrilling.