The knowledge that generations of women before me have undergone the same event, in no way lessens the intensity and wondrousness of my experience with the creation of life.

I’m crying, laughing really, as the nurse places my son, my son, on my chest. My tears mingle with his as he protests his entry into this world. I hold him tight and softly stroke his tiny body trying to infuse him with my love. For the moment I am successful. He relaxes into my arms and allows himself to be comforted.

My husband and parents exclaim over the miracle of his birth. I too, marvel over the birth of my child. Yet, I am jolted by a far more startling fact. The birth of my child has created the birth of a mother. Quite suddenly I have been catapulted out of my serene world of two. I have entered a world where the needs of a tiny infant take precedence and consume me. My child has captured my heart, my soul, my mind and... my time.

Paradoxically, however, time has lost meaning. I’m in a time warp as I sit cradling my little angel. The exquisiteness of his finely shaped features astounds me, and the sensation of his tiny fingers lightly fluttering across my arm delight me. I bury my chin into the smooth and deliciously soft creases of his neck. A powerful love radiates from my heart and caresses my child. His warmth in turn penetrates me, until I feel as if I’m the one being cradled, caressed and loved.

He is the center of my universe, and I am the center of his. No matter that my face will never make it onto the cover of a glamour magazine. There is no face my little prince loves to see more than mine. No matter that I cannot sing on tune. His face lights up as I sing to him lovingly… and off-key. He never notices that I have two left feet as he squeals in delight when I dance with him around the house.

He is my child… and I am his mother.