When I had my first baby, I was obsessed. I focused in on tiny toes; I sung lullabies as she fell asleep. It was full-throttle, punch-the-sky-in-jubilee romance.
With one baby, after a while I discovered the real joy of life. To me, she was the meaning of love and life.
With the first one, infant hands curled against me each morning when I cradled her, I felt a love I had never felt before. I took hundreds of photos, all capturing many wonderful moments.
There is something almost surreal and magical about life with one.
E was my first baby. Her birth was traumatic, but after I was transported to the other side, a new calling. The secret of motherhood, the quiet, time-defying nature of baby-love.
The weeks before I had J, I wondered would I love the second baby as much as my first, I thought about the gift of one. The intimacy of one.
How can I love anybody as much as I love her?, I would think as E twirled around in her dressing up outfit, running over to me for a kiss.
There was a moment in the hospital where it all came together. It was after J was in my arms. I kissed his pink cheeks. I touched his tiny nose and my heart beat a hundred times a minute.
I wondered at his perfectness, at his uniqueness. At him being a him.
E was excited about mummy having a baby and when J came into the world you could see that she was a proud big sister. Sometimes I find the her little arms around his little shoulders as she kisses him on the cheek. In these moments, love is multiplied .
Their love for each other at such a young age is wonderful, beautiful and it makes me ooze with joy knowing that they will always have each other.
