I never knew that presence would feel so much like fear. For years, I did online mindfulness courses, I read books, I practiced yoga and I meditated sporadically, counting each breath. In. Out. One. In. Out. Two. I tried to live my life as it unfolded, rather than in stomach-clenched anticipation of an unknown future. But the Ghosts of the Past and the Yet to Comes were still regular visitors, and I lost so many moments to what ifs and if onlys.
Then you were born and I am now present as can be. There is no time to think about your future when you need me this second. And you always need me. Even when you are sleeping, I have to be beside you; your longing to hear my breath as deep as mine to hear yours, both of us only able to settle if the other is in arm’s reach.
From the moment you arrived I haven’t been counting my breaths anymore; I’ve been living them. But it isn’t the freedom that I had imagined mindfulness to be. When I stare at your dark eyes, your button lips, the tiny curves of your ears, I am present, but desperately so, trying to hold onto that which is already slipping away.
I am scared every day. Every time you learn something new: giggling, patting the dogs, rubbing your hands all over my face leaving glistening trails of saliva in your wake, my heart swells with love and contracts with fear.
In. Out.
Because though it sounds trite, I really do love you more each day. And with that comes the realisation that with each passing second, I have more to lose.
Nights are the worst, when I put you down in your bassinet and I have time all to myself. At first, it’s hard to relax, my ears attuned to your every sound. Then, when I am sure that you’re settled, I stretch out my arms and legs as far as they will go, enjoying the freedom in the movement. For those few seconds I am no one’s. My limbs are my own, the emptiness refreshing. But it is a temporary sensation; fear settles into the space so recently occupied by you, the heaviness a jail of its own making.
The present is terrifying in both its perfection and fragility. Because you are fragile. We all are, and I’ve always known it, but it had never seemed urgent before you; it is as if you came equipped with a magnifying glass designed to bring into focus the joys and terrors of existence.
Sometimes I am so frightened it feels unbearable, and I fight the urge to grab you and run out the door in the dark of night, driving away at such a speed the bad things can’t catch us. There is a sense that if we move fast enough, if we never stop running, we could live forever. Entire industries are built on that notion. But I don’t do that. Instead, I lie there, trapped beneath the weight of the fear in each moment, breathing through them one by one.
In. Out.
Then morning comes and you smile at me as you blink away your dreams, so happy to see me and so secure in the knowledge that I will keep you safe, a promise that I unwittingly gave to you and that I will give to you one million times over; a promise built of hope and desperation, the flimsiest thing I can offer but made up of everything I have.
But when I see that smile, I briefly forget the fear. I forget that life is made up of randomness and chance and bated breath. And in those moments rests eternity. I sing you your good morning song and you roll around with joy, every cell in your body lighting up with delight.
It is so easy to make you happy.
As I write this, I can hear you sigh in your sleep, a sound so sweet I would bottle it if I could, and I want to lift your small body and mould it back into mine so that I can keep you protected and safe always.
But you are here. You are here. And in this moment that is all I can ask for. So I breathe through each second I get with you, thankful for every single one.
In.
Out.
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