When the morning comes

37 | son of my right hand

Wrong.

With thirty- eight weeks, my water broke. An hour before, I had felt kicks still. High hopes. Big faith. We made our way to the hospital, and two hours later, the baby was almost there. Wretched memories appeared, and I could tell the fear got to us both.

The birth was a little hazy, my worry grew too big. Maybe, we had been a bit traumatised, knowing the baby we held last didn't have a heartbeat.

I remember the feeling of the baby getting out completely, for a few seconds, it was dead silent. And then, the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard in my life filled the tense room. It was the sound of a newborn crying loudly, hysterically. Missing the warmth it'd had in the motherly womb.

The words are flying through my mind while writing this letter. "Congratulations. You have become parents of a beautiful, healthy baby boy."

A boy.

He was laid onto my chest. I remember his bare skin coming in contact with mine. That moment was so wonderful. I got to kiss his cheek before they cleaned him and wrapped him in the blankets we brought with us. You laid beside me in the bed, kept asking the nurses and doctor if he was healthy, what his heartbeat meant, if his temperature was okay, if his weight was alright.

"Mr. Malin, he's completely healthy."

No matter how many more questions it raised about the death cause of Eden, we allowed ourselves to thoroughly enjoy this moment. They gave us time alone and we stared at our created baby boy. Beniamino Matteo Teddy Malin. Benjamin. Son of my right hand. Benji. Our son. Our boy.

Do you remember holding his tiny hand in ours? Touching his little nose. Brushing our fingers over his wet, rosy cheeks. Playing with his dark, fuzzy hair. Kissing his little lips. Holding him to our hearts. A tiny, fast beating heart, on his parents' calm, beating heart, knowing he was healthy. Woven delicately in my motherly womb. Exquisitely.

Zev. Mamma mia. I get sentimental thinking back. He's nine now. Our little baby boy, growing wiser and stronger and more independent each day. He cooked lasagna today with me. Il mio bambino. Il mio dolce ragazzo.

We were allowed to go home after a day or two. They wanted to make sure everything was alright after our last, painful experience. The first day home was not to be described.. You held our little boy in your arms. Showed him everything. From the couch, to the toilet, to our bed, to his room, his nappies, his toys and his dummy and not to be forgotten- his first books.

"I feel uncomfortable looking at him." We were stood at his bed after lying him down in his crib.

"Why?" I'd frowned, held your hands.

"He doesn't have a pillow."

I laughed. Scolded you in Italian. "It needs to be like that. He's fragile."

We picked him up again. The moment I had been waiting for was there, when he started crying. I'd done it in the hospital, but you weren't there, because the doctor was busy answering your many questions, showing you and teaching you how to wash a baby in a tub, stuff like that.

"Zev, il mio amore. Come." Oh, it was wonderful. I sat down comfortably, held Benji in my arms and fed him. It went beyond me, feeding my child with something that was made in my own body. The contact between him and me, physically, emotionally. I gave him the nutrients he needed in order to grow. He grew because of me.

Motherhood is indescribable. It is so wonderfully conceived. A mamma baby moment.

You sat beside me, stroked his little, soft head while you watched him drink. His little hand rested on my breast, he did that each time I fed him. You were almost jealous of the intimate moment between mother and child. Wondered why a papa didn't have something to have a moment like that with his child. After I would have fed him, I always handed him over to you, so you could let him burp.