Maya Rose

I remember staring at the wrinkle above your nose, two days old, knowing it would go away.

Torn between gratitude for today and gratitude for tomorrow, you taught me how to be thankful.

Each moment that passed in the night, each night that passed in that first week, I’d wake up and say, we made it.

And now, you’re three.

And you still breastfeed.

When my nipples were bruised and bleeding and I cried before each feeding and your Dada helped me hold your chin down so you could eat, you taught me I was determined.

I remember loving your sweet cheeks that were the softest ever on the planet and not wanting to wash the white out of your hair.

I knew I couldn’t get back what I had and it wasn’t going to last and I was scared to move forward but now the past is just the past and you are sleeping in your bedroom with your baby brother and tomorrow we are going to the zoo because time has carried us here and there is ever more to be to let go of.

You birthday present waits for you to open it.

I love the memory of rubbing you in coconut oil and how your fat little baby legs danced over your changing table. I told myself I wouldn’t forget it. I won’t.

You’ve taught me that I am sharp.

You’ve taught me that I am patient.

You’ve taught me that self-love is remarkable and that forgiveness is natural.

You are my moon and stars and space between, sweet Maya Rose.

You are my eternal child sweet honey dew, forever stretching me, supporting me, guiding me and showing me my truth.

What ever you become I’ll love you.

<3 Love always, Mama

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