That's pretty much been my parenting tagline since day one. You get pregnant and carry this life around inside you for nine months (arguably, ten) and by the end you're tired and just want the baby the hell out of your body so you can bend at the waist again. Only it's when the baby comes out you realize the hard part has just begun.
I feel his palm warm against my skin, a slight movement of his fingers as his hand finally settles. Tired, I only want to sleep, impatient and silently praying for him to eat quickly so I can go back to bed. The memory is now barely there, the act of his hand grabbing onto my arm as I feed him lost, unappreciated in its simplicity.
It pains me to look back at the moments I let go by without a second glance not understanding how the passing of time is a mirage with seemingly no end in sight.
