A Letter to My Firstborn
BY ALLISON PRINE
Photo Courtesy | Allison Prine
Early this morning you paused in whirling about the living room to smash your newly freckled nose into the valley of my chest. I heard the wind rushing through the tiny caverns of your nostrils as you inhaled as deeply as you could. “I love the way you smell, Mama,” and then off you spun again, lost in the maze of your imagination.
My chest aches with the echo of your warmth, the joy of knowing you as you grow, the grief of change as we grow. Lately you have been finding my worn sweatshirts, holding them close, almost discovering a new kind of love for me. Like you know I am here, separate from you, aware of how I come and go, holding on to me in quiet ways like I hold onto you. As this new baby churns in my belly forcing space between us, we can both sense the winds changing. Being pulled away by our hips as our arms are outstretched towards one another. We are locked in a captivating, heartbreaking dance, oscillating between the deepest human connection and your flighty steps away from me.
As we attempt to wrap our minds around the coming changes, my mind keeps coming back to the day you were born, curious about the strange tornado that transformed our life in an instant. As you were carved from my belly and held to my face, I kissed your fresh lips as I walked the thin line between blackness and consciousness, waking only to discover that that I had missed that first golden hour of your life. From the moment I was wheeled back to you I held you to my chest, that same spot that seems to hold the essence of my scent today, my arms wrapped all the way around, as if I could melt you back into me. I spent the foggy years that followed nurturing the invisible force between us, indefinitely compensating for the trauma of your entry into this world. I felt the distance acutely every moment that I was apart from you, my mind overflowing with awareness of your presence in the world. I lost myself in you, the velvet of your skin, the sleepless nights, your pinched latch at my breast, the intoxication of being your everything.
From the moment you came to life, a personality emerging from a newborn grub, every move you make is overflowing with authenticity. You sing and roar your truest self into existence, demanding space in a way most of us have lost, in a way I hope you never forget. Watching you unfold has provided a mirror of strength and ferocity, a reminder to honor who I am, as I find my own identity in this new self of mine.
Sometimes we still convince ourselves that parenting can mold you into a tamer, gentler version of yourself, but challenging your spirit only dampens it. I watch your unbridled vibrance with awe and pride as you teach us about you, about ourselves. As you radically make yourself known to us there have been sudden moments where I felt the tug of you pulling away, but mostly it is a natural assertion of your independence.
I feel an overwhelming warmth when you are injured or afraid and the elastic between us snaps you back into my arms, the sobs into my shoulders echoes, reminders, of this visceral connection between us. To be so courageous and grown, and to still be so little and unabashedly vulnerable at the same time.
When you were still small I could feel a rolling tingle of energy linking us from anywhere, running errands on my own, as you slept in the next room, even between the back and front seats of the car. I tried in vain to describe the intensity and the mystery of it, but words failed to match what I felt in my bones. When I woke up, in the dark of night, in the early light of the morning, I would look over at the monitor and see your infrared-illuminated eyes blinking back at me, did you sense me wake or was it me that felt you? The tingle has faded away, we are two separate people these days, and still, this bond is magic, in the darkness of the sorrow and the wonder of the joy.
The first time I was pregnant after you, around your first birthday, grieving the changes that would interfere with our relationship consumed me. I felt relief when I miscarried, not ready to let you go just yet. I healed from the loss with you at my breast, breathing life back into me. The smallest shifts in our connection echo within my soul so deeply, I quietly take time to adapt as you throttle ahead with resiliency.
The second time I was pregnant after you I grieved our relationship again, but the grief took a different shape, the first wave had prepared me for how to walk this path.
When I miscarried last time I had accepted the changes it would bring, but felt immense guilt for not being able to bring forth a sibling to share with you during the pandemic.
This time it feels like a long waiting game, anticipating the wave of this new life to crash over us in two months time. Power, beautiful, destructive, and ebbing once again if only we can ride it out.
While we wait, I daydream of effortlessly handing the new baby off to family, of whisking you away on adventures just the two of us, of all of the ways I will make sure that you know how special you are. Excitement for the new baby is masked by craving, preserving, this bubble of life with just you. I told you I will miss this time just the two of us, and you instantly reassured me it still is just us. For awhile longer.
I weave hopeful stories of the fun you will have with your baby brother, of the bond you will share, of how you will grow to love him too. In the end these stories are for me, to justify this big overhaul of your simple four year old existence. Most days I do not know how we will do it, how I will ever love anyone as much as I love you, how we will brave the chaos in this transition. If you have taught me anything, it is the power of sitting with the hardest parts of our lives and trusting that we can and will grow together from here.
Preserving the foundation of what has been and preparing for the uncertainty of what is to come, I lay with your wiggly body as you fall asleep more nights, I shower you with kisses, I must whisper I love you’s a thousand times a day, as if I can make sure you never doubt the depth of my love. Your mind is expanding faster than I can keep up, wondering about death, the universe, the human body. Your creativity is exploding as you lead us into the magic of your imagination.
I can feel your body growing, too, a shift in space so gradual that it is imperceptible until the moments when I am awed as you stretch your long legs out or grow heavy in my arms. Thirty weeks pregnant yet I still lift you in the air and throw you above me just like when you were tiny, just to hear the eruption of giggles. For now, I am hanging onto that feeling of you, suspended in joy, floating above me, as we tenderly slip into this new season of life, together.
ALLISON PRINE is a mother, human, lover, therapist, and writer living in the Bay Area in California. She spends her days floating between the magic of her spitfire four-year-old daughter’s world and holding space for parents as they explore the mystery and darkness of transformation in parenthood. With a BS in Neuroscience, an MA in Counseling Psychology, a specialization in perinatal mental health, and a lifelong love of reading and writing, she approaches motherhood with a bottomless well of curiosity and passion. She aims to parent with unconditional love, share stories with authenticity, and find wonder and meaning everywhere.