You’re sleeping now.  They tell me I need to wake you in a few minutes, to feed you, to ensure you get your fluids.  They’ve actually upped you to 24-calorie formula.  Who are you?  I can gain weight just typing the word "formula."  You’ve lost a pound this month.  Well it’s no wonder with all you’ve been through.  Your father has been right here with you, though.  He’s had to listen to me rant, and you cry, and then he’d hold up the phone for me when you made cooing sounds, just to reassure me that you’re doing alright.  Now he’s home with Madam Speaker, and I’m here with you, watching you sleep. 

I’m watching your belly, softly rising and setting. I feel, in a way, like I’m with Linus.  His breathing always calmed me, and you’ve got that same small pink bald spot as Linus does. When I was scared or anxious, Linus used to collapse near my head, curling himself into a small bean.  And I’d watch his little body rise, as I do now with yours.  And hearing him breathe made everything else go away.  It made all the world okay, even when I feared it wouldn’t be.  That little sweet bean got me through everything.  I cried in his fur, and he licked up my nose, and he slept in a small wheel of his own making, curled into himself, sweet.  You pull the covers over your head when you sleep.  By "covers" I mean the lightest little burp cloth I can manage to find.  You love to draw them over you, the same way I do when it’s raining or too bright.  When you’re upset, throwing a red hissy fit, I breathe deeper hoping you’ll feel the rise and fall of me and move along with the rhythm of my body, heart, and breath.

Sweet baby Lucas, you got your first tooth today.  I love when the "news" of your life, the new things you encounter for the first time, are newsworthy.  When I first felt your tooth, a ripple of joy came out of my mouth, so loud that nurses ducked into your room.  It sounded like a grownup coo.  "He got his first tooth!" I said, nearly forgetting we were here, in a hospital room, minutes before they’d come to drain fluid from your shunt to see if it matched the suspect fluid they drained earlier from your spine.  I hate that it happened here, and I promise when we’re home, I’ll dig in there and make everyone (okay, not everyone, no one, in fact) feel that sharp little rectangle of yours.  I’ll bug you with the macro lens and ready it all for the scrapbook. Your first tooth.  I’m totally your mother because just putting the news out there makes me cry, the way any other mother cries, for joy.