“You found me!” I shriek, watching you two speedily crawl toward me. I hadn’t been hiding from you, but after watching you play so nicely together, I thought I had a moment to slip away and pour a cup of coffee.
But you found me, and now you raise your arms to say, “Hold me!”
I sit on the floor, hugging you on my lap, and I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. I thank God you found me—that your two tiny little souls found your way to mine.
I remember when I held you in my arms, baby boy, as your skin turned the shade of dusk, and you ceased breathing. In a flash, the NICU nurse whisked you away, flicking your heels until you began to cry, your lungs filling with air again. I looked at your tiny little body, only a few days out of mine, but saw your soul from someplace else—you’d always been part of my heart, before the before, and now you’ll always be a part of me.
And you, baby girl, I’ll never forget cradling you at the end of a long day, watching my tear drop onto your pink cheeks. “Do you know who I am?” I said to you. “I’m your mama.” But you kept sleeping. I hated leaving you at the hospital those nine nights. I cried into my pillow, wishing for you to be next to me. I hoped your spirit heard me—hoped you felt I was right there next to you. I’m your mama. And I know our souls are connected.
You’re both older now, and never far from reach. I worry less and laugh more. We play until the sun goes down: peek-a-boo and hide-and-seek. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky; I don’t deserve to call you mine, to be your mother. Patience and warmth were always traits I had to work on, but now with you two, it’s easy. Maybe before I was merely lost.
All I know is I’m so glad your souls chose me to be your mother.
I’m so glad you found me.
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