I remember the moment when I realized that I had bonded with my firstborn. I was folding laundry — the whites — standing at the peninsula in the kitchen in our old house. I came across the lingerie bag that contained the teensy little baby socks that newborn Helen had been wearing, and I just fell apart right there.
Ever since then, I have this weird affection for my children’s socks.
I used to imagine, when I was pregnant, how magical that moment would be… holding my newborn child, suddenly realizing all of the sacrifices my mother had made for me, and looking towards my mother and not needing to say anything. Just, finally, understanding. And we would nod at each other.
That moment didn’t happen in the hospital, like you always dream that it will. I thought Helen was cute and all, but I was in a lot of pain in the hospital. I was pretty strung out on painkillers for about 10 days, really.
The Moment happened when I was probably two weeks post partum (judging by the fact that I was actually standing up, which I couldn’t DO for a while), folding laundry in my kitchen. All of a sudden, I Got It. It was startlingly clear to me that day, that suddenly there was this little creature that I loved more than I loved myself or Jerry, more than I loved ANYthing else in this world. You dream about moments like this — the magic of them, the romance. Socks. I was folding SOCKS.
God, how I love my children. I tell them constantly, but I will never be able to truly express how much they enrich my life. They make me laugh, they make me scream, they make me cry, they make me WHOLE.