Mother's Hands

This is the week I realized my life took a turn I expected but is still unexpected.

I think it began with my hands.

Each morning I bring Pruin into bed with me for his last few hours of sleep.  He smiles and giggles and strains and yawns.  There he lies squirming with my hand on his chest until he gives in to sleep.  My hand reminds me how small he still is despite his growth spurts and weight gain.  My hand almost covers his entire torso, proving comfort to both him and I.

My hand is brown and spidery next to his fresh, smooth skin reminding me of the song from which we took his nickname.  It bears the scars of my life's adventures.  A life which indirectly led to these mornings.  It looks 'old.' But everything looks 'old' next to his newness.

Some days feel never-ending.  I long for bedtime only to dread it when I finally put my head down.  There's no knowing how long I have until he needs me again.  Other days flash by and he suddenly no longer fits into his newborn clothes.  What remains constant are the days themselves.  Everyday is just a copy of the one before with minor variation.  It isn't until I look back that I see where 'progress' has been made.  Although what we are progressing toward is still foggy.  Everyday I begin again with no real clue about what I am working toward.  There is no hard deadline.  The benchmarks are vague and only visible once you pass them.

I still don't think of myself as a mother (Despite referring to myself in the third person as 'mummy.'  And not just to Pruin but to adults and in conversations not pertaining to babies or parenting. A thing which I said I would never do. The first of many, I fear).  Yes, I know I have this little Pruin to take care of daily, but the identity of 'mummy' hasn't fixed itself to my brain as of yet.

Or, more likely, my pre-Pruin ideas of what 'mother' meant haven't materialized and so this new life seems, well, unexpected.

I keep trying to fit Pruin into my life.  Trying to hold on to what I was and did before...him.

Inevitably, I fail.  Instead, I find I have to craft a new life.  Keeping important and meaningful bits from before and letting the rest fall away.  Or maybe just packing it away for later.  Not unlike preparing for a move or spring cleaning but with less tangible clutter.

At times my hands itch to be free of his.  To do their own thing as they did before he arrived.  But this little man has a tight grip.  If I can't find a way to do it one-handed, it will have to wait.  Maybe forever, but hopefully not.