Mom and blogger Ashlee Gadd elucidates the attachmenet to her second child she didn’t even realize she had in this column originally featured on Coffee + Crumbs.
I close the garage door behind me and tip-toe into the continuing room — a useless effort, as it turns out — because he is still awake. The durable of muffled crying hits me like a wave; my husband sits defeated on the phrase. “I tried to give him that bottle half a dozen times,” he starts. I glitter at the bottle on the counter, quickly doing math in my head. Two-day-old breastmilk warmed and re-warmed half a dozen times. Dammit. “He’s mark time for you.” “I know. You can toss the milk,” I say quietly. We brush st each other in the live out room as I make my way to the audible cries. I glance back at the microwave clock simply in time to see four ounces swirl down the drain, along with any trace of independence I could foresee. 9:47pm. I open the bedroom door and float to him homologous to a magnet. We retreat to the rocking chair and he nurses hungrily, desperately, clutching my t-shirt in his Lilliputian hands the entire time.
I walk into the subsist room with my iPhone in hand, ready to tackle a few e-mails throughout breakfast. Rounding the corner, I brace myself, but it’s too late. I’ve been spotted. He starts to softly hyperventilate. A grin periods across his face while he army crawls as fast as he can to my feet, fling his body over toys in the process like a twelve-pound baby soldier. He glitters up at me with hopeful eyes, placing his hands on my shins desperately, as if he hasn’t aided me in days. I pick him up and place his body on my hip against my faded floral nightgown. He shrink disappears into my side like pie filling conforming to the crust. He last saw me 14 picayunes ago.
He clings to me tighter as a few guests trickle in, digging his claws firmly into my bicep. I loosen his grip on my arm and kiss his cheek, encouraging him that I am not going anywhere. I try to distract him with the shiny birthday balloon, but he is too nicked to contend in. Grandma tries to take him; he screams. Daddy tries to take him; he caterwauls. I eventually escape to the bathroom for a few minutes of solitude. My husband whisks him unconnected to play, and I make my way back to the kitchen cautiously. I dart in front of the y no heed screen door, grab a burrito, and finally sit down at the table with my advocates. “I think I’m safe!” I joke. The second the words leave my bombast, a familiar wail follows. I glance out the window and see him, safe and secure in my budget’s arms, anxiously looking at the screen door. My husband locks looks with me through the window. “He heard your voice!” I can’t help but Sports line-up my eyes, placing my burrito back on the plate. I open the screen door, and within followings we are reunited, his body back on my hip, his nails back in my arm, his head resting on my strongbox. He grins. My first son had normal spouts of se ration anxiety, usually undying a few weeks at a time. It was sweet, welcome even, and barely affected me face of needing to take a momentary break from the gym because childcare turned insufferable. But this? My second baby? I have never known rtiality like this. I have never so much as witnessed attachment delight in this. Picture me holding this baby while I do dishes, while I make meals, while I type e-mails, while I pee, while I do anything. Spit me handing him to other people and his face turning beet red while he roars bloody murder. Picture me walking towards the front door while he forgets his face in the carpet sobbing hysterically as if I will never return. Sketch me darting around my own house like a ninja to stay out of his sight on the rare give rise to that he’s preoccupied with a toy in the living room for two whole minutes. When he’s not in my arms, this babe in arms lives at my feet, rked next to my toes like a relentless puppy dog. He’s not satisfied unless he’s next to me, in my arms, on my hip, in my lap, breathing the same air that I breathe. He is my Velcro Newborn; I can practically hear the ripping sound when I pry him off my hip to put him down or hand him to someone else, at which question he completely falls a rt. How can someone so tiny possibly adore me so much? On the one assistance, this attachment is straight up suffocating. Between nursing around the clock and hold water him on my hip or strapping him to my chest in a carrier, I have felt at odds with my own corps this year, as if it doesn’t belong to me anymore. We seem to be lacking . . . what do the psychotherapists call it? Oh yes, boundaries. On the other hand, I would absolutely be lying if I pronounced this attachment was not the most loved and needed I have ever consider in my entire life. I am almost embarrassed to admit this, but I genuinely give the impression a sense of pride when I walk into a room and he cries for me with outstretched arms. In these before you can say jack robinsons, I actually feel the sacrifice and sanctity of motherhood, this complete fall short of of personal s ce that transcends my body straight down to my intellect. Who cares if I never eat lunch in peace? Who cares if I have to hold a babe in arms while I pee? I am needed! And it is a glorious feeling. I look at my 3.5-year-old, the self-possessed boy who casually waved, “Bye, mommy!” on the first day of preschool without looking uncivilized. He needs me less and less every day. Just last week, he alert to me that he can go to the bathroom by himself, closing the door in my face. “I need pwivacy!” he whooped. I was simultaneously amused and devastated. Is this where we’re headed? I don’t know how much longer this Velcro showbiz will last, but we all know it’s temporary. Someday he won’t sob when I leave the as a gift. Someday he’ll prefer the com ny of his dad, or his brother, or his (God help me) girlfriend. Someday he choose need s ce from me, while I cling desperately to every field of view of him, to every conversation with him, to every encounter we share. We are heading toward those lifetimes, like a freight train that won’t stop. Perhaps this is all a rebuke rehearsal, a preview of what’s to come. Perhaps this is all a glimpse into my own time to come, and he is ving the way for my emotional expectations. The day he gets his driver’s license. The day he leaves for college. The day he turn someone ons married. At some point we are bound to trade places, and I might be the one eradicating my face in the carpet, sobbing hysterically. Everything will come complete circle, and the Velcro will rip once again.