Y’all should know by now, I’m not big on posting photos. So this will come down in a few days. But I had to share. Time for the pic to come down, sorry.
We went to see the mall Santa this morning. Someone was awake until we got in the stroller, and by the time we got from car to Santa’s booth, he was passed out. Didn’t bother Santa, he snuggled him up anyway.
I cried. I’m still crying. I feel like all I do is cry some days. And it bothers people — Santa gave me a hug this morning, the lactation consultant the other day suggested I might have postpartum depression. But I know it’s not. How do you explain to someone that you never met before, that you’ll never see again, that you’re crying because you thought this day might never come? How do you explain the years spent terrified that you would never get to pass your son into Santa’s lap, the Christmases past spent wishing for these precious fleeting moments? That these tears are of celebration, an outpouring of love for that tiny little body in your arms, for all the hopes and dreams now made flesh?
He’ll be six weeks old tomorrow. Six perfect weeks.