I glanced at the clock last night at 6:45. I missed it. The one week mark. Rowan was born at 6:07pm last week Tuesday.
I'm hopeful that the first week is the hardest. I think it was with my little man, but that makes sense to me - I was not yet a mother when I brought him home. I was so confident that I was beyond that. Seasoned. Battle tested.
I was wrong. I'm really struggling here and while I'm not ashamed to admit to myself and my inner circle, I'm not proud of saying it out loud here, where I have received so many well wishes and congratulations. Where I have chronicled how much I wanted to meet him. Which is why I've been silent for so many days.
The days I spent in the hospital have created a splinter, and I realize probably a temporary one, in the rock solid bond I share with my first born. The positive is that he has bonded more than ever with his father, who devotedly cared for him in my absence and I am happy about that. Still, it's not easy to be the one left behind. That five day stretch is the longest I have gone without caring for him and we are both feeling it. He is out of sorts and it is slowly breaking me, watching as he acts out every single day, wanting to help him but never seeming to find the right words. I miss him even though he is right here.
At the same time this baby is beautiful and perfect and hardly makes a sound but I don't know him yet. There's not much to know. He sleeps and nurses and sleeps and nurses and sleeps.
I feel very much like I'm a mother of two but a mother to none.
I don't want to wish this time away, but I really, really do.
