I miss her when she sleeps

I don't remember the last push. And I had to ask my husband last night if she cried as they placed her on my chest. All I remember is the incredible relief to know she was here, that her little body was whole, her eyes open, her head searching for something recognizable.

As soon as she was born, the doctor and nurses rubbed her down and placed her on my chest, the umbilical cord still connected. She stayed there for an hour. Me hot and sweaty and exhausted, her naked and wide eyed. She rooted, finding what little I had in my breast to drink.

And then, the hour was gone.

She was on a heated table being weighed. She was in my husband's arms, in my mother's arms. Soon, a nurse arrived to wheel us to a room, where another woman arrived to take Aida away to the nursery for checks and tests and all the other new baby housekeeping stuff.

After almost two hours passed, I called the nursery. "When will my new little daughter be back?" I asked. I missed her.

When they returned her in her wheeled bassinet, I couldn't stand to close my eyes for fear of missing her more. Despite the exhaustion of 14 hours of overnight labor, I kept my gaze on this 6 pound, 15 ounce creature with blue eyes and a head of light brown-maybe-kinda-red (could there be red in there?) hair.

You're the one I've been talking to and thinking of and feeling all this time? My daughter. My sweetie. We have so much to discuss. 

At one point in the middle of the night, while my husband slept soundly on a fold-out chair placed there for overtired husbands, a nurse came in to find me holding Aida with my eyelids dropping.

No sleeping with the baby, she advised. The hospital doesn't allow it.

Apologetically, I placed this tightly swaddled Aida baby back in her bassinet. A few minutes later, with the nurse out of sight, I gathered her up again and held her to my chest. I didn't want to miss her tiny breath, her flickering eyelids, her twitching lips.

Two months later, we've developed a clumsy routine at home. She sleeps. She wakes. I change her diaper and talk with her about how gross it is or how beautiful she is or what the weather is like outside or whether we should go for a walk or if the Saints will win today. We play, on tummies, on backs, with strangely shaped toys that make noise and some that don't. She tires and cries. I swaddle her and rock her and place her in a crib, at first relieved that she is sleeping.

But almost as soon as I turn from her crib, as soon as I turn out the nightlight and grab the doorknob to leave, I wonder how long it will be until I can hold her again.

And I miss her.