Delight.

Bhaji is delightful.

I’d forgotten how hard one falls in love with their newborn.

It’s the smiling.

The chuckles.

The cooing.

The way her eyes seek me and only me out in a room full of people.

She goos and gurgles at me, entirely incomprehensible sweet baby-voiced imitation syllables.

The chuckles, Internet, they melt me even at three am when it’s only because she’s been dumped in her cot and has accordingly worked her left arm free from her swaddle and is seriously campaigning not only for the freedom of the other three limbs, but to come back into bed with warm squishy Mama and nuzzle all night.

Yes, I usually give in. It’s so very hard not to. But I have learned other things. I Am Not An All Night Human Milk Bar. I do also now firmly shut my nursing bra after a sensible interval. Amusingly enough, Bhaji then bobs her head against the fabric about a million times a night in sleepy optimism. Sometimes she gives a half-assed suck on the outside for a bit before giving it up. Just in case.

It’s funny how a cold-virus-infested little person who is either vomiting on you when she coughs, leaving snot on your nipple when she sneezes or dribbling your bra to ‘how-about-it?’ soggy bits can be so damn snuggly.

She’s developing clear anticipation of pleasant things. I just adore me a little four limbed wriggle and hyperventilating ‘ah, ah, ahhhhh!’ for some areola in the morning.

I’ve even come to like the sensation of my breast being compressed mammogram-flat for a perfect baby pillow.

She’s entirely delightful and I  love her so very much it hurts.

I will miss this.

I want this feeling for everybody who seeks it as badly as I did. As many times over as they want. It’s worth all the hard times. It’s worth it all.

G