Grand love, blue heart

Hi, sweetheart!

Piper is sound asleep, so I figured I would write on her behalf tonight. She got her vaccinations this morning, and had a pretty rough go of it this afternoon. On one hand, I wish I could efficiently convey to you the feeling I get when she suffers through the effects of those shots, but on the other I'm glad that at least one of us is spared it. My breathing gets shallow and I try to ignore the feeling of my chest getting tighter and rising into my throat. My mouth sets into a forced smile and I blink away the beginnings of any tears. I certainly can't console her if I'm blubbering, myself. The worst part is that feeling I get in my belly, about an inch below my navel, deep inside. It's not a sharp pain, it's a slow tugging feeling, like my incision stitches are unraveling and they're being pulled toward the front of my body. Piper looks at me through tears and lets out a yell that magically translates in my mind, transforming from an incoherent squawk to “Mama, please please save me and make me feel better.”

I tell you all this for a reason.

Since I've had Piper, I've learned that I experience two very different types of love, one for each of you. While my pain for Piper is in my belly, so is my love. Your pain and your love I feel in my chest, beneath my left ribcage; coincidentally, right where my heart is.

My love for Piper is strongest in the morning when she wakes up, and in the night when I rock her to sleep. It is a brilliant shade of golden yellow-orange, and it washes over me like sunrise at the Grand Canyon. There is a radiant warmth to it which fills the inside of my belly and makes me feel like I could never be cold again. Her love grounds me to the earth, makes me breathe deeply, and inhale her scent of warm baby skin with the aroma of steamed milk. She makes me feel capable and strong.

My love for you is strongest at night, as I fall asleep in our bed, and in the daytime when I'm reminded of all the wonderful things you do for us. It is the deepest blue of the sea at St. Martin, and it surrounds me with a gentle and fluid grace. Your love binds itself around my heart and keeps it safe. I feel a fluttering lightness behind my sternum that tickles its way out of my mouth, first as a taste of sweetness and then as a smile. Your love makes me feel delicate, vulnerable, and secure.

When I miss you, I feel a crushing tension in my chest that makes me round my shoulders and sigh. When I remember you during Piper's delivery, the ribs around my heart threaten to crack and splinter. My gentle, blue love goes ice cold from the regret that you were so helpless and yet so strong. Fortunately, it is easy for me to transfer the pain back into the love; easier with you than with Piper, for some reason.

I have been overwhelmed and amazed during these last few months by my capacity to love and endure pain. I feel blessed to have two such wonderful people in my life. You and Piper challenge and inspire me to be the best wife and mother that I can. You are my everything, both of you, and I don't think that there could ever be a luckier woman than I.

Safe travels, daddy, and we'll see you in a couple of weeks.

Love, Mama

P.S. – Piper would like to go to the Grand Canyon someday. She wants to know what her sunrise looks like.