I fed the baby, and she fell asleep. Her eyes fluttered madly under her eyelids and then she suddenly squeezed them tight in protest against my fingers stroking her hair and disturbing her rest.
I thought, “If only the camera were nearby, I could record this and be able to watch it again anytime!” But there would be no point. These little eye movements, this rhythmic breathing — it only works because we are together: me holding her, here, now. Years later, I could watch it on a screen — I could call her over, all grown and independent, to sit next to me as I watch it — but it wouldn’t be what I had hoped. What I would want is what I have now: this baby — no other — asleep and in my arms, blissful, trusting, content; the sound of her breathing, the smell of her hair, the weight of her little body on mine.
I have it now, and I will never have it again. Motherhood is in this moment.