Me and Paul

Me and the Paul Man go way back. It's been almost a year since he implanted himself in my womb and make himself comfortable. Eight days past his due date and nine and a half pounds later, we finally met. And I would love to say we had an instant connection and it was love at first sight, but it just...... wasn't. And I've been feeling really guilty about that.

I'll be completely honest and say I was really hoping for a girl (If you ever read this Paul, don't be too offended. I really hoped Hannah was a boy.) It wasn't so much that I yearned for another daughter, but that I desperately wanted a little sister for Hannah. I have two younger sisters, one just three years younger than me. And it's awesome. Sisters are awesome. I loved sharing a room until I left for college. I love doing our makeup together in the bathroom when I'm home for a visit. I love shopping together and doing all the other things sisters do. I don't have any brothers, so I don't what kind of great things can be done with brothers. So I wanted Hannah to have a sister, close in age, to be her sweet friend.

When I got over the initial shock of, "Oh my goodness I have a SON," I had to mourn. And I felt really awful about that. It wasn't until about a week after his birth that I realized I was mourning the loss of a sister, not mourning the fact that I have a son. And the two are very different.

But even as I got used to the idea of a little boy in our family, I had a hard time bonding with Paul. The reasons are many. His birth was quite traumatic. I wasn't filled with the euphoric joy that Hannah's natural birth came with. I was just exhausted and relieved and hungry. On top of that, he screamed for the first hour of his life and was calmed only by Ted. I didn't spend his first moments of life gazing into his eyes while he suckled at my breast. I spent it begging him to stop screaming and finally handing him off before I lost my mind.

I've always heard mothers make comments like, "I just can't remember a time when he wasn't in our family!" and, "He just fits in perfectly!". And I just couldn't relate to that at all. In those first few days and weeks all I could think was, "Of course I remember a time when he wasn't in our family! It was a much, much easier time!" We had lost our groove. The rhythmic flow of our day that I had grown so accustomed to. We had this entirely new person in our lives and he was throwing everything off. And I really had a hard time adjusting.

With Hannah, I was able to rest when she was resting and play with her when she was awake. But when Paul rested I was taking care of Hannah. And when he was awake I was just trying to keep Hannah from getting insanely jealous and angry. So I didn't get to take naps with him. Or spend an hour just staring at him. Or give him a relaxing bath and baby massage and play dress up with him. For those first few weeks, I basically just kept him alive and hoped he slept long enough for me to feed Hannah lunch.

And I wasn't prepared for how hard it would be for me to see how hard it was for Hannah. One night we moved the rocker out of her room and into ours so I could nurse Paul in it at night. At this point, she was still being read to and rocked in it every night before bed. What were we thinking? She set off looking for her rocker and when she found it my room she was ecstatic. But when she realized it was staying in there and she wouldn't be rocked in it, she was hysterical. After I put her to bed in tears, I came out of her room, buried my head in Ted's chest, and just sobbed.

It wasn't the way I had pictured it. I felt like I didn't love my son. I remember telling Ted, "I love him because he's my son, but I don't love him. I don't know him!" And I felt so, so guilty. I said, "He deserves a mother who loves him! He's so cute. Why don't I feel more connected to him?"

Well meaning friends said things like, "Isn't having a little boy the best? Don't you just love having a son?" and I lied through my teeth and said it was wonderful. But the whole time I was thinking, "I just want to send him back and go back to the way things used to be."

I cringe thinking about that now. Because at some point, I have no idea when, I fell in love with him. So deeply and completely in love with him. And it grew a little more each day and I know it will continue to do so until the day I die. He is perfect. He is beautiful. He is my son and I wouldn't trade him for any girl or any daily routine in the world.

I love the sound of his sweet voice and the way he contorts his little face when he's trying to talk to me. I love his smell. I love his fat rolls. I love his easy-going disposition. I love that he lets me know what he needs gently and patiently and looks so happy when he's satisfied. I love the way he looks when he sleeps and the dazed expression he gets when I wake him up. I love his "game face" when he's feeling feisty.

The other night, he started fussing from his cradle when I had exactly 30 seconds of my show left. Rather than letting him fuss until it was over (which I sometimes do) or complaining about having to go nurse him (which I also do...) I sprang up from my chair and practically skipped into my room to get him. The thought of holding his sweet little body in my arms and pressing him to my breast literally made me giddy. I felt like I was in junior high and I was running to the telephone to answer a call from my latest crush.

I am so in love with my son.

Certainly I'm not the only mother who has felt this way. (And if I am, just don't tell me.) Me and Paul may not have hit it off right away, but now I know him like only his mother can. And love him like only his mother can. And now I have an entirely new way to relate to our Blessed Mother. I'm a mother to a son too.

And it really is wonderful.