This afternoon, my son woke up early from his nap. When I went in to get him, he stopped crying, found his pacifier and blanket, and motioned to be picked up. When I lifted him up, instead of wriggling out of my arms to go play, he snuggled into my neck and grabbed my shirt. I decided to sit down in the rocker in his room and soak in this rare snuggle time.
As I rubbed his back, and his curly hair tickled my nose, I cried.
I cried because, even after 16 months, I feel so damn lucky to have him.
I cried because of all of my friends still fighting for their own babies.
I cried because of the loss that has been frequent among the infertility community recently.
I cried because my love for this little boy is so strong, it makes my heart ache.
As his drowsy hands traced the shape of my nose and mouth, my tears reached his fingertips. He raised his head off my shoulder, as if to make sure I was okay. I gave him a smile, kissed his forehead, and he decided snuggle time was done. As he wriggled down from my lap and ran out of the bedroom to see his dad, he looked back with a big smile, the one I dreamed about for so many nights.
I am so lucky to see that smile.