A moment from the hospital

11pm. 4/5/2014

This is tomorrow. 

After all the waiting, all the days and weeks and months of expecting and counting down, the pain of labour, we’re in the ‘tomorrow’ we’ve been waiting for.

My Littlest one has had her feed and lies in her clear bassinet beside me, red faced and beautiful. Her face scrunches, she stretches, a little burp. A little posset. My milk has finally come in and she’s been enjoying the plenty.

Her little arms dance and she stares at me, blinks. Her eyes slowly close. The room around is dark, only Littlest and I are in half-light. Staring at each other.

O that was surely a smile. She fans out her fingers, her little tongues comes out. Is she hungry again? She has slept well all day – through the kids doing summersaults on the bed and crawling under it and checking all the buttons. Now, she is alert, looking around. She moves her hands and fingers slowly, as if she were still held in fluid.

As a child I used to try to run into the next moment, the perfect moment, the moment in from the rain, or to the letter box if I knew a birthday parcel was being delivered. Always waiting for the next moment.

But this is the moment I want to stay in. Right here. Right now.