Photo taken a few weeks ago
I want to remember the night we had. You couldn't stop throwing up. It was your first time ever, so you were nothing but confused and alarmed. Your body shook and strained and I held you, cleaned you, and said inaudible things in calming tones. It's the tones you remember deep in your subconscious, not the words. Just like this night. It will sink in somewhere but you will not remember.
I worried about you. I rocked you, your body wrapped around the circumference of my massive belly, your cheek against the skin of my arm. I checked methodically with my hand on your forehead for possible fever. I stared down at you while you slept, tried to remember you being any smaller than you are. I couldn't, really. Your chest rose and fell and after a few minutes you stirred and I grabbed another towel. What do we really want when we're sick anyway? Someone to be there with us. Look at us, acknowledge our suffering. I tried to do that for you while the rest of the house slept.
You'll be the youngest for another two weeks maybe. We adore you, we tease you, drive you crazy, inspect the way you run down the hallway, hair disheveled, diaper sagging. You amaze us, no matter what the milestone.
The first time you see your little sister, it won't make sense. You'll be delighted, but you won't know. You won't know until you're five or six, until you're ten, until you're twenty, what an amazing blessing a sister is. She will be there for you and will be part of our gift to both (all) of you.
But remember, the specific tug you give my heart will always be there. Never to be replaced or lessened.
Love you Lills. And all your crazies.