But I splurge and buy some designer maternity shirts. After a few minutes of pushing, our son is born, and I am able to place my hands under his little arms and pull him out of me, and lay him on my chest. We say a prayer to him, and my husband cuts the umbilical cord. He will never be more protected than he was when he was growing within me, and from this point on, he begins his journey away from me. Days of snuggling and nursing give way to evenings of rocking and lullabies.
Time is measured in terms of doctor visits, immunizations, growth charts.
The switch to solid food and teething are milestones, akin to rolling over and sitting up. There are books on parenting and childcare stacked up in the corners of every room, although my go to edition will invariably be out of reach when I need it. I wear his spit up stain on my shoulder like a badge of honor. It is a dead give away on the rare occasion when I am out in public alone. Of course, the perpetual rocking back and forth even though my arms are empty is also a clue, and other parents silently nod at me as if to say, Been there, done that.